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kinglazrus · 4 years

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No Such Thing as a Fresh Start

Phic phight 2020

Submitted by @q-gorgeous: dash finds out danny is phantom. what does he do to help danny? does danny know dash knows?

Summary: Of all the people that could have found out. Out of everyone, in all of Amity Park, it has to be Dash Baxter. It has to be the one human Danny is truly afraid of.

Warnings: swearing

Word count: 8123

Danny's halfway into the locker when Dash freezes. He doesn't actually mean to stop. He got another bad grade in English class this morning and Lancer's disappointed face pissed him off so much that he needs to hit something. Stuffing Fenton into a locker is close enough. But as Dash shoves Danny's head down, as Danny flails pathetically and tries to push him off, Danny's shirt hikes up a little bit, exposing his hip.

Stretching from the waistband of Danny's jeans to up under his shirt is a patch of rough, ugly skin. It's wrinkled and bumpy, tinged red and pink. Dash doesn't know much about scars, but he knows enough to see whatever injury this was from, it couldn't have happened more than a year ago.

Dash grabs Danny's shirt and pulls it up, revealing more damaged skin.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?" Danny grabs Dash's hand and shoves it off with surprising force, enough that it makes Dash stumble back. Danny teeters on the edge of the locker. Arms shooting out, he manages to catch the door and brace himself against the inside wall. It doesn't look comfortable, one arm squished against his side, one leg tucked under him while the other sticks out, head ducked to avoid smacking it against the top of the locker.

Dash barely pays it any mind, though. His eyes are glued to Danny's hip. He was able to get Danny's shirt almost halfway up before he was stopped, but he didn’t even see the edge of the scar. It must be huge.

A hundred questions run through Dash's head. When did Danny get it? How did it happen? Is it serious? It looks serious. That bothers Dash, for some reason. It nags at him.

"Okay, you're actually starting to freak me out," Danny says.

Dash raises his gaze, meeting Danny's eyes. Other people in the hall are staring at them, Dash can feel it, but he can't look away. He can't stop picturing the marred skin stretching across Danny's torso.

Danny leans back, drawing his other leg into the locker with him. "So, I'm just gonna... yeah..." he trails off. Sticking his finger in the locker door grates, he pulls it closed. The hinges squeak all the way, a grating whine that echoes down the hall.

As soon as the door shuts, Dash snaps out of his daze. He shakes his head, blinking, and glares at the students that stopped to watch. "What the hell are you looking at?" he says.

The students scurry away, heads low.

Dash lingers a moment, staring at the locker, then shakes his head again. Turning on his heels, he marches down the hall, heading to the gym rather than the cafeteria. He needs to think for a while.

—

Danny doesn't know who's locker this is, but it reeks. He's sitting on a pair of old shoes and a canvas bag, probably someone's gym clothes. It takes all he has not to gag. Climbing all the way into the locker rather than out of it wasn't his greatest idea. But he couldn't stand Dash's staring, and he figured the only way to get Dash to leave was to finish the job.

Wiggling, he shimmies around until he's turned sideways—thank god Casper High has such big lockers—and peers through the grate in the door. He knows Dash can't seem him, but the sight of him staring makes Danny shiver. He waits, holding his breath until Dash finally leaves. And then he wants a minute more, just in case.

Once he's sure the coast is clear, Danny turns intangible and tumbles out of the locker. He rolls forward, almost smacking his face on the floor, and comes up dizzy. He grabs his head until the world stops swaying.

"I can't deal with this," he says out loud. There's no one else in the hall with him, so he's talking to himself, but that's not the craziest thing he's ever done. Besides, Jazz has assured him multiple times that voicing your thoughts out loud is a common practice for lots of people. It helps them sort through their thoughts better than they could if everything just swirled around their head for hours, thoughts tripping over one another left and right, struggling to take their place at the front of your mind.

Like the mall on Black Friday morning, except the doors never open and the thoughts just keep shoving, and shoving, and shoving, trying to get to the front even though there's nowhere to go.

"Maybe I should talk to Jazz again," Danny says. He stands up and brushes his jeans off, hoping he doesn't smell too much like someone else's dirty laundry. He's just lucky it wasn't one of the rusty lockers. Those ones always make his eyes and nose itch and leave red flakes all over his clothes and hair.

Danny's about to head to the cafeteria for lunch when his chest goes cold. The feeling travels up his throat, chilling his tongue, and a puff of blue air seeps out of his mouth.

"Oh, come on." Danny groans. At least it's during lunch and not class time. If he's lucky, it'll be someone easy. Maybe then he can wrap up the fight quickly and actually have time to eat, rather than sneaking bites of his sandwich during art class.

Looking up and down the hall, he double-checks to make sure he's alone and transforms. Turning intangible, he shoots into the air. It's cloudy outside, the sky dull and grey, and drizzling steadily. If Danny remembers right, it's supposed to thunder later, which makes him sigh in disappointment. He doesn't mind thunderstorms. They can actually be kind of cool. But thunderstorms usually mean it's going to be cloudy all night, which means he won't be able to stargaze while he's out for his midnight flight.

But he shouldn't be worrying about that right now. He has to find whatever ghost set off his ghost sense. Danny swoops over the school, scanning the grounds. No one's outside today, because of the rain, and the football field is soaked. He sees nothing but growing puddles.

Looping around, he heads toward the city instead. He's gotten better at sensing ghosts, especially in a wider area, which sounds like a good thing, at first. Except that his ghost sense has never been good at actually pinpointing where the ghost is. So for Danny, a wider range means more places he has to look before he actually finds the damn thing, and he doesn't have all day.

He spends half an hour flying around, looking for the culprit, and comes up with nothing. Not even a speck of ectoplasm. It could be a friendly ghost just hanging around, but Danny doesn't feel right taking that chance. Not after what happened the last time he brushed off something strange and ghostly.

Technus turned Danny into one giant bruise that day. Let it be known that while bruises are usually a small thing, they are still a sign of internal bleeding, and a massive one that takes up half your back shouldn't be brushed off so easily. Danny found that out the hard way.

Frustrated and hungry, he circles back to Casper High and touches down on the roof, right next to the hatch that leads down into the gym.

For the longest time, Danny didn't even know there was a way onto the roof. He never actually uses it, choosing to fly up, but ever since he's found it, it's been one of his favourite spots at school. The hatch only exists for maintenance purposes and students aren't even allowed to touch the ladder that leads up to it.

Danny gives the grounds around the school another furtive glance. It doesn't feel right to give up on the ghost so soon. He knows they're close by. He can feel it. If he heads inside now, he'll just draw them into the school and endanger some of his classmates.

At least that's the excuse Danny tells himself as he lowers himself to the ground, crossing his legs. Better to wait a bit, rather than tempt fate.

Laying back, Danny folds his arms behind his head and stares up at the clouds. They aren't much to look at, but he's sure they're darker than before. A squat antenna tower cuts through the top of his view. It's a relic from a bygone era, back when Casper High had an AV club that tinkered with radios all day. It's ugly to look at, but the school never took it down.

Danny rolls onto his side so the tower is out of view, closing his eyes and letting the rain soak him. He's always more comfortable when it's cold. He might regret it later, when he changes back and finds his clothes damp, but for right now, it's nice. The warning bell hasn't gone off yet, so he has a few minutes to spare out here before he really has to go back inside.

Just as Danny's getting comfortable, his chest goes cold again, and a shadow falls over him. He opens his eyes to the smooth, gleaming skull of Walker. With a startled shout, Danny scrambles upright, scurrying toward the radio tower, and faces Walker. He raises his fists, lighting them up with ectoplasm.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. "I did all your stupid community service stuff, remember? My sentence is paid."

"Ten thousand years is a long time to shave off for a little bit of community cleanup," Walker drawls.

"Oh? That's what you call it?" Danny asks. Funny way to describe Walker siccing him on every ghostly with an overdue warrant. Danny can't remember the last time he got in so many fights in one week.

"You just can't seem to stay out of trouble, punk. Damaging another ghost's lair? That's a thousand years." Walker pulls an envelope out of his pocket and throws it at Danny. It only flutters a few feet, but Danny snatches it out of the air with his telekinesis and pulls it toward him.

Side-eyeing Walker, he tears the envelope open and pulls out the folded piece of paper inside. It's a formal police report, filed by Skulker three days ago, citing charges against Danny for property damage and endangering his afterlife.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Danny says. He floats forward and waves the report in Walker's face. "You mean all this time you've actually had a formal police system? And I could have filed criminal charges? That's so unfair."

Walker loses some of his composure, staring at Danny in bafflement. "That's what you care about?"

Danny tosses the report in the air. It stays floating by his shoulder, surrounded by a soft green glow. "Is there some kind of lair registry thing? Could I register Amity Park as my lair? You guys always tell me it is, but you keep attacking it! Doesn't that endanger my afterlife? Attack my lair too many times and I might just snap, right?"

Danny paces through the air, fretting. There are so many fights he could have avoided. Skulker is so going to get it the next time Danny sees him. This is such a cheap shot. He won't stand for it. It probably breaks so many unspoken ghost codes. They're all brothers in ghost crime, aren't they?

"Skulker's a fucking snitch," Danny says.

"Bad luck for you, punk. You've got another sentence to fill out." Walker grows bigger, looming over Danny, reaching out for him with a massive gloved hand.

"Wait!" Danny shouts, shooting out of Walker's reach. He really doesn't want to get in a fight right now. "This is all official, right? That means I can give my side, and it actually matters. It was purely self-defence!"

Walker doesn't have any lips to speak of, but his teeth clack together and his aura flares, expressing his interest. "Go on."

"It happened last week. I was heading to the medieval kingdom when Skulker came out of nowhere and attacked me. Gave me this." Danny zips down his jumpsuit and pulls it open, showing Walker his newest scar, the same one Dash saw. Skulker managed to hit Danny with a new flamethrower of his, scorching him from his chest down to his hip.

Thank the Infinite Realms for ghostly healing. Danny was only out of it for a few days rather than the months he could have been. A few sniffles to his mom, plus a concerned pout from Jazz, and he was home "sick" until he healed.

"I shot him back to defend myself. We were pretty close to his lair. A few stray shots must have hit it," Danny explains.

Walker gives Danny's scar a considering look, shrinking back down to his normal size. Taking the police report out of the air, Walker scans its contents again. After a moment, he tucks it back into the envelope, which he returns to his suit pocket.

"Don't think you're off the hook yet, punk. I'll be back," Walker says. Just like that, he's gone.

Danny sags in relief, dropping back to the ground. "I can't believe that actually worked," he says. Tipping his head back, he laughs, grinning up at the cloudy sky.

Something scuffs the ground behind him. Danny groans. "Come on, Walker, I told you it was self-defence. Don't you have to investigate that or something?"

He turns around, ready to give Walker a piece of his mind. Except it's not Walker. Across the roof stands Dash Baxter. And he's looking down at Danny's exposed chest, at the scar he saw on Fenton not even an hour earlier.

"Would you believe me if I said it's a birthmark?" Danny asks. Judging by the stricken expression on Dash's face, that's a no.

—

As soon as Dash enters the gym, he heads up the bleachers, toward the back wall. There's a ladder in the far corner of the gym that leads up onto the roof. Kwan once dared him to sneak up there during their free period. It's been Dash's favourite place at school ever since. Besides the football field, that is, but that's currently flooded. He doesn't want to get soaked up to his ankles in muddy water.

Dash climbs the ladder with ease, stopping once his head brushes the hatch. He bends over, going up one more rung, and jerks upward, slamming his shoulder against the hatch. The day Kwan gave him the dare, Dash discovered there wasn't actually a proper lock keeping the hatch shut. All it has is a simple latch on the other side. To get it open, you need a special tool to stick into the seam between the hatch and the frame, and you have to jimmy it around a little bit to get it open.

Or, you can do what Dash does, and bash into the hatch over and over again until the latch jiggles open on its own. It makes his shoulder sore, but it's easier than sneaking down into the boiler room and finding the stupid stick.

Dash squeezes through the hatch, closing it gently behind him so it doesn't make too much noise, and starts across the roof. His destination is a vent sticking out of the room, held up by metal supports. It curls out of the ground like a worm, bent in an S shape. The end extends out, pointing toward the edge of the roof. It's just high enough for Dash to sit comfortably beneath it and wide enough that it provides some cover from the drizzle.

Dash settles there, stretching his legs out, and leans back against the vent. He might have to check his jacket for grime later, probably give his hair a quick wash in the bathroom, but this is alright for now. It's a great place to think. Nobody ever comes here, so there's no one to interrupt him.

His hand falls to his chest. He presses against his ribs, trailing his fingers down, tracing the path of Danny's scar. He tries to imagine what it feels like. It would be rough, he thinks. And maybe a little dry. It would feel foreign against his fingertips.

It must be from Danny's accident. No one but his friends and family knows the full story, at least as far as Dash is aware. They know Danny was there the first week of school freshman year. He didn't make much of a lasting impression, and almost nobody knew his name except those he'd gone to middle school with. Then, over the weekend, something happened. One kid who was passing on the street said he saw flashing lights and heard Danny scream.

He was gone for two weeks, the peculiarity of his absence and the mystery of his accident spreading his name to the furthest corners of Casper High. The rumours cycled through the school five times over, getting a little more bizarre each time. He spilled some dangerous chemicals, he messed with his parent's weapons, his parents shot him on accident, his friends shot him on purpose.

By the time Danny returned to school, everyone was waiting with bated breath to find out the truth. Danny refused to tell. Neither Sam nor Tucker gave even a hint of what had happened that weekend. Jazz said she didn't even know the full story herself.

Everybody lost interest after that. Danny was back, he was fine, and he wasn't telling the story. Collectively, the school decided to move on. No one thought about who the accident might have affected Danny, physically or mentally. Dash is thinking about it now.

His older sister, a nurse, has told him a few things about what big scars like that do to a person, even years after they've healed. They can be painful and stiff, impeding movement. Sensitive to touch. Easy to hurt. He thinks about how many times he's given Danny a good punch to the stomach over the last few months.

Guilt swirls in his gut, for a moment. It's quickly replaced by anger. Dash scowled, punching his fist against the rooftop. It's so stupid. So what if Fenton got hurt over a year ago? He's obviously fine now. Dash has nothing to feel sorry for. Everything Danny gets is his own fault, anyway. He's the only one who ever fights back.

Danny doesn't seem to get it that Dash would let him go if he just stayed down for once. One good wailing to set him straight, to make sure he knows not to mess with Dash, and then they can dust their hands of each other and be done with it. But Danny's one of those people that keep getting back up no matter how many times he gets beaten down.

Can't he see he's only making things worse for himself? Can't he see that if he just stops and does what Dash wants, he won't get hurt anymore? Everyone sees it.

It pisses Dash off. If Danny's going to keep doing infuriating things like defending himself, then he deserves it. He can't just go around pissing people off and expect them not to do something about it, that's ridiculous. It's not Dash's fault. It's not.

Dash curls his hand into a fist, clenching it tightly. Bringing it up to his face, he rubs his eyes and lets out a tired sigh. He doesn't want to think about stuff like this. All he does is go round and round without making any progress.

Resting an arm on his knee, he lowers his forehead to his elbow and stares at his hand. When he curls his fingers, his skin pulls taut across his knuckles. They're still red from when he socked Danny in the jaw a couple days ago. Sticking his hand out, he holds it under the rain. The minuscule drops barely dampen his skin, but it's cold and refreshing. He rubs his thumb across his knuckles, as if that can wipe away the bruises.

When it doesn't work, he lets his hand drop and resigns himself to sombre silence. It's a good day for silence. Fewer people are out because of the rain, even though it's the middle of the day. The drops, more like a fine mist than actual rain, make no sound.

Something whooshes overhead, drawing Dash's gaze toward the sky. Noise from above typically means an impending ghost attack, but he only sees Phantom. The resident ghost hero is a bright spot against the dull sky. He hovers for a moment, a white sun, then flies in Dash's direction.

Dash opens his mouth, about to call out, but stops at the last second. Phantom looks tense, mouth set in a grim line. Dash doesn't want to interrupt whatever he's doing. He tips his head back, watching Phantom fly over the school, fully expecting the ghost to pass them by.

To Dash's surprise, Phantom touches down on the other side of the roof. Dash scrambles to his feet, searching for the threat he should be running from, but it's just him and Phantom out here. When Phantom lays down, Dash hesitates, dumbfounded.

Creeping forward, staying flush against the vent, Dash grips the supports holding it up. The metal bites into his fingers and sucks the heat from his palms, but he holds it like a lifeline. Phantom's whole deal is beating people until they stay down. Maybe Dash can talk to him about it. Sliding his feet forward, Dash takes a step out from his cover, ready to talk to his hero.

The ground behind Phantom ripples, a tall white figure rising up out of the room. Dash scrambles back out of view, peeking around the vent to see.

He's never seen this ghost before. They're dressed completely in white, barring a black fedora, and have a skull for a head. Dash's first thought is that this is one of Phantom's allies. Those hopes are dashed away when Phantom sees the ghost and leaps away, immediately poising to attack.

It looks like Dash is getting a front-row seat to a ghost fight. Which is all kinds of cool, but also dangerous.

The only way off the roof is the hatch, which sits between Phantom and his opponent. There used to be a ladder crawling up the back wall, but it got damaged during a ghost attack a couple months ago and hasn't been fixed. With no escape route, Dash is forced to hunker down and watch.

It doesn't go how he thought it would. Phantom and the other ghost's—Walker's—voices carry easily across the roof. Dash hears everything they say, although none of it makes sense to him. Who knew dead people had a formal police network and criminal system? Who knew Phantom was a criminal?

Actually, that idea isn't so far-fetched. The more Dash thinks about it, the more sense it makes. Phantom doesn't act like other ghosts. He probably breaks a whole bunch of laws. The ghosts that attack the city are probably bounty hunters! That weird metal ghost is always shouting about capturing and hunting Phantom. Dash is willing to bet his football career on there being a bounty on Phantom's head.

He can't wait to tell Kwan all about this new, fascinating revelation.

Dash watches, rapt, absorbing every word. Paulina's going to be so jealous when she hears Dash got so close to Phantom. Especially with the few harmless embellishments he's going to add. She will be livid to know Dash spent the whole lunch hour hanging out with Phantom on the roof.

"It was purely self-defence!" Phantom shouts.

Dash frowns. There goes his criminal theory. This Walker guy reminds him a little of Tetslaff. Strict, no-nonsense, all about authority. Which means if you do something wrong, you don't get to defend yourself, you take your punishment and do better next time.

Walker also has that stern, "I want to execute you," look. Although that might just be the skull for a head.

Walker doesn't hang around for much longer after that. Phantom shows him an injury as evidence of his innocence, Walker threatens Phantom one last time, and pretty soon Dash and Phantom are alone again.

Seeing his chance, Dash moves out of hiding. As he steps forward, his belt loop catches on an exposed screw on the vent supports. Dash's feet nearly slip out from under him. He throws out his arms, quickly regaining his balance, and looks back to Phantom, hoping he hasn't scared the hero off.

Phantom turns, an exasperated expression on his face, and glares in Dash's direction. The glare slips away almost instantly. Phantom pales, his eyes going wide. Dash doesn't pay attention to any of that. All his focus is on Phantom's chest and the familiar scar that cuts across it.

—

Danny and Dash stare at each other for a long, long moment. Distantly, they can hear the warning bell ring, marking the end of the lunch hour, but neither of them reacts. Danny watches Dash warily, afraid of how he's going to react. Dash looks back with increasing dread, afraid of what he believes is true.

"Fenton?" Dash asks.

Danny stiffens. "Fenton?" He laughs weakly. "You mean that loser kid in your year? Is he here? I don't see him."

Danny makes a show of looking around the roof, pulling his jumpsuit zipper back up as he does. His gaze flicks down to the front of the school, the warning bell finally registering in his ears. Lifting into the air, Danny backs away.

"Sounds like you need to get back to class, citizen," he declares in a deep voice.

"Fenton, wait!" Dash says. He lurches forward a few steps, reaching out, then pulls back. Danny doesn't move. They're at a standstill. Neither of them really wants to be there, but neither of them wants to leave, either. They can't leave.

Danny needs to know Dash won't spread his secret. And if he will, then Danny needs to be prepared. As much as he wants to flee and pretend this never happened, he can't let Dash out of his sight until he knows what's going to happen next. Danny's mind is in overdrive trying to come up with every possible scenario.

Before Danny can stop him, Dash lunges for the rooftop hatch. Defying all logic, he makes it back to the cafeteria first. Dash clambers up on a table, drawing everyone's attention and shouts for all to hear, "Danny Fenton is Danny Phantom!" It doesn't take long for word to get back to the G.I.W. Wasting no time, they rush over to Casper High and detain Danny for being a class five ecto-entity in breach of the American Ecto Act and take him away. They experiment on him for the rest of his life.

Or, Dash recognizes Danny for the freak he is. His fear quickly turns to anger, and he lunges. Dash may be human, but Danny can only do so much to stop him without actively hurting him. Dash beats him to a pulp, calls the G.I.W., and leaves Danny on the steps of Casper High for them to find. They take Danny away for being an inhuman abomination and experiment on him for the rest of his life.

Or, Dash laughs it off. He claps Danny on the shoulder and agrees that Fenton is such a loser. They part ways amicably, an unspoken agreement to never speak of this again. Until Dash spills the secret to Kwan, who tells Star, who tells Paulina, who tells everyone. Eventually, word gets back to the G.I.W. They lock Danny up in evil ghost jail. And experiment on him for the rest of his life.

Logically, not every possible outcome ends with Danny being taken prisoner by the G.I.W., becoming an unwilling participant in their sick experiments. But human brains really suck at being logical when you're two seconds from panicking.

Dash's mind, on the other hand, is completely blank. Rather than running a mile a minute, his thoughts have come to a screeching halt. They laugh at him from afar, dangling just out of reach, and leave him to flounder in silently. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to move. Danny Fenton is Danny Phantom and he isn't prepared to handle that information. Fenton can't be Phantom. Fenton is infuriating. Fenton is a flea, a temporary nuisance in the grand scene of Dash's life. Fenton is a weak nobody who's only good at getting under Dash's skin.

Phantom, on the other hand, is Dash's idol. He's everything Fenton isn't and then some. Dash stares at Phantom right now and feels lost

Their staring contest drags on with no clear winner in sight. Thunder rumbles in the distance. The sky is a little darker now, and it won't be long before the clouds open up and drown Amity in a torrent of rainfall. It won't matter much for the two boys on the roof, though. They've been out here too long, standing silence, and are already soaked. It makes no difference to them as the rain grows from a drizzle, to a light shower, to a downpour in a matter of minutes.

Lightning flashes, followed a few seconds later by a great crash of thunder. Dash flinches, startled by the sound, and breaks eye contact first.

"Fenton," Dash says, advancing.

"Don't."

"Come on, I just–"

"I said leave it."

"Why are you being so–"

"Dash!" Danny bellows. His voice cracks like thunder, a trace of his ghostly wail rattling the rooftop, and is lost in the storm. Eyes flaring, he flies forward. Halfway to Dash, he jerks to a stop. He doesn't know what he will do once Dash is right in front of him. There's a burning feeling building in his chest that tells him it whatever it is, it won't be good.

Crying out in frustration, Danny turns away. He drops to the roof, curling over, and presses his hands against his ears so he can't hear Dash calling out to him. Of all the people that could have found out. Out of everyone, in all of Amity Park, it has to be Dash Baxter. It has to be the one human Danny is truly afraid of.

Dash Baxter is nothing like the G.I.W. They're a faceless mass of interchangeable bodies hiding behind the same suits and sunglasses. The G.I.W., as a whole, are threatening. Dash, to Danny, is downright terrifying on his own.

Danny aches just thinking about him. As a halfa, his body heals fast, but his mind was never granted such luxuries. If you keep hitting someone in the same place over and over, one day the bruise will sink so much deeper than skin. Danny is more bruise than boy, at this point. Pressing his head against his knees, he drags his hands through his hair, trying to stay calm.

Lightning flashes in the corner of his eyes. Rolling thunder booms through the air a second later. In the silence that follows, filled only by the staccato beat of the rain, he hears Dash's approaching footsteps.

"Go away, Dash," Danny croaks. He doesn't even care anymore. Let Dash do whatever he wants, tell the whole world who he is.

Dash stops a couple feet behind Danny. He looks down at his hero, huddled on the roof, and a strange feeling fills him. He refuses to regret anything he's ever done to Fenton, but... he wants to help. Because that's what Phantom does.

"No," Dash says.

Danny raises his head, hands dropping, and sneers over his shoulder. "No?"

Dash lifts his chin and nods, refusing to budge. "No."

Danny rakes his gaze over Dash, looking him up and down, and scoffs.

"I won't tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about," Dash continues.

Danny laughs, cold and derisive. "That's what you think this is about? I can't believe this."

Dash crosses his arms, hiding his confusion behind his scowl. "You're not worried about that?"

"I was," Danny amends. "For about two seconds. Look, Dash, I don't want to... I don't know. I just don't want to."

"That's kind of stupid, Fenton. I could always just beat it out of you."

"You don't even know what it is!" Danny stands up and spins to face Dash. He reaches out, hands curled together, and throttles the open air. "Just leave me alone!"

"No." Dash takes a step forward, pushing Danny's hands down.

"Stop saying that!"

Dash steps forward again, peering down at Danny. They're practically nose to nose. "No," he hisses.

"I swear to god, the Infinite Realms, and the fucking Box Ghost, if you don't back. Off–"

Danny's hair stands on end, static shocks jump through it. Faster than Dash can react, Danny lunges forward, tackling him onto the roof hatch. An eardrum-shattering bang bursts through the air as lightning strikes the old radio tower. The excess electricity, searching for the nearest conductor, shoots toward the metal hatch currently acting as Dash's backrest.

Dash has a second to panic before the world goes cold around him. He drops through the roof into the gym, back slamming against the top row of bleachers, and rolls off the step.

Danny falls through the ceiling a second later, and the electricity comes with him. It stretches between Danny's back and the metal hatch, crackling and sizzling. Danny screams, curling in, aura turning blue. A burst of cold air pushes outward and suddenly everything around Danny is coated in ice. The electricity surges across the ice, springing into a fuse box on the wall behind Danny.

Every light in the gym bursts, sparks raining down, plunging the vast, empty room into darkness. Dash pulls himself up, rising onto trembling legs, and looks around. A few final sparks fall from the ceiling, fizzling out before they reach the floor. He can't see a single shred of light, not even under the doors on the other side of the gym.

The whole school is blacked out.

"Fenton," Dash whispers. He turns, too fast, and trips on the bench behind him. Careening forward, his arms windmill as he tries to catch himself. He hits something cold, smacking his chin against it, and narrowly misses biting his tongue in half.

Dash groans, rubbing his jaw, and carefully pulls himself up. His hands and knees slip on the ice. Now that his eyes are adjusting, he can see it gives off a slight light. Not enough to truly see by, but enough that he can find Danny's silhouette, slumped and human, at the ice's epicentre. He crawls forward and reaches out. A small static jump jumps from Danny's hair to Dash, making him flinch back.

Rubbing his finger, Dash shifts so that he's sitting. Carefully, he reaches out and taps Danny's head with his foot.

"Yo, Fenton," Dash whispers. It feels criminal to break the silence. "You dead? More dead?"

Danny mumbles something. His shoulders shift. His arm wiggles out from under him and grabs Dash's foot, shoving it away. He raises his head and glares at Dash, not that Dash can actually see it in this light.

"'M fine," Danny mutters.

Dash scoots back, giving Danny space, and strains his eyes, trying to see what Danny is doing. But it's too dark, so he gives up and settles against the wall.

Danny, coming to the same realization as Dash, pushes himself up with slow, painstaking movements. He huffs, thumps his back against the wall, and gets comfortable.

"You just got struck by lightning," Dash says.

"I got struck by indirect lightning," Danny corrects. His voice rough and his throat burns when he swallows. There's no blood on his tongue, though, so that's a bonus.

"And you're fine?"

"It shorts out my powers for a little bit, but it doesn't hurt much."

"You're lying."

"You don't know that!"

"Your voice does this wobbly thing when you lie. You're such a bad liar, Fenton."

Danny grumbles under his breath. "Why were you even on the roof in the first place?"

"It doesn't matter," Dash snaps defensively.

"Whatever."

They fall silent again. The school is supposed to have emergency lights for this kind of situation, but they don't appear to be working. Dash hopes the come on soon. He doesn't want to be stuck in here with Fenton. If he were really determined, he could try and feel his way down the bleachers, but he doesn't want to risk a fall.

Danny, caught on a similar vein of thinking, doesn't move either.

The silence is suffocating. It stretches between them, a vast chasm filled to the brim with repressed aggression. Dash can only take it for so long.

"How do you do it?" he blurts the question out after only a minute of silence.

"What?"

"The ghosts. They keep coming back, no matter how much you beat them down. How do you do it?"

Danny considers the question. Despite how stupid Dash is, he's not totally an idiot, and Danny can tell there's some hidden meaning in what he's asking. Danny's answer should be obvious. He does it because he needs to. Somebody has to keep Amity Park safe. Considering this whole mess is technically Danny's fault in the first place, he feels a little responsible for it and takes it into his own hands.

The wording throws Danny off. He doesn't beat his enemies down, he stops them. Dash makes it sound brutal, like a schoolyard fistfight.

"Dash." Danny's voice is strained. "Do you think you're like me? Phantom me, I mean."

He gets no answer.

"I swear, if you just nodded or something, I'm gonna punch you in the face."

"Why do you care?" Dash sounds defensive again.

Danny breathes in through his nose, a calming action, and exhales. "Do you think you're some kind of hero or something for beating people up?"

"You're the one who's always begging for it."

"I don't–" Danny shakes his head. He takes another deep breath. "You're serious? One hundred percent?"

Dash's silence is all the answer Danny needs.

"Oh my– wow. Dash. Just, wow. You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

"Hey, you don't get to say that. You don't know a damn thing about me!"

"I know you get your kicks out of beating the hell out of me. Because that's so damn heroic of you, isn't it? You are not a hero, okay? You're the worst."

"Screw you, Fenton! You don't get to talk shit about me like that. You're the one who's always getting in my way. Maybe if you just shut your mouth next time, I wouldn't have to shut it for you!"

"You know what, Dash? No. Fuck you!" Danny reaches into the darkness, searching, and latches on to the first piece of Dash he finds. He yanks Dash forward. "You know what the worst part about going to this school is? It's you. I'm afraid to come to school because I know you'll be here, waiting for me, ready to knock another took out. And I fight ghosts. Every day. I beat the ghost king. I've bent freaking reality. I've been electrocuted, shot, turned to goo, and you are still the worst thing that's ever happened to me! You're the villain, Dash!"

Dash grabs Danny's wrists. Rising to his feet, he drags them both upright. "You've got a big mouth for someone who's such a wuss."

The emergency lights finally snap on. They both wince, the sudden light blinding them, but Danny recovers faster. He swings his fist and punches Dash square in the face, breaking his nose. Dash's head snaps back with a spurt of blood. He stumbles back, feet sleeping on the ice, and clutches his face.

"What the hell!" he shouts, staring at the blood on his hand.

"Can't take a punch, Dash?" Danny sneers. He only has a second to prepare himself before Dash lunges. Confidence abandoning him, a primal fear rising up instead, Danny turns and sprints.

"I'm gonna kill you, Fenton!"

Danny believes him. On instinct, he leaps into the air, the fastest route of escape, and remembers too late that he can't fly right now. "Shit!" he shouts, flailing as he falls over the bleachers, the ground rapidly approaching. Panic shoots through him. He's going to land wrong and break his leg and then he won't be able to run, and catch will catch him, and he's definitely going to kill Danny this time.

The thought swells up in his head, suffocating any logical notions.

"Fenton!" Dash's voice, squeaky and panicked, rings out through the gym. It snaps Danny out of his spiralling thoughts long enough to remember he's a superhero, damn it, he knows how to talk a fall.

Just before he hits the bleachers, Danny kicks out, pushing himself off one of the benches. It jolts his leg and sends painful shivers radiating up the limb, but does the job well. He starts falling forward instead, rather than right down, barely missing the rest of the stairs. Leaning into the fall, he hits the ground shoulder first and rolls, letting the momentum bleed out. It's not his best recovery, and his shoulder and leg throb painfully, but nothing's broken.

Danny lays splayed out in the middle of the gym floor, panting. Distantly, he hears Dash's thundering steps as he books it down the stairs. He should get up and run while he can. But Danny's shaking all over and he thinks, if he were to stand up right now, he would just fall over. His body still aches from the brief electrocution.

"Fenton!" Dash says, his head popping into view above Danny. He looks conflicted, face red and angry, but honest worry in his eyes, like he can't decide if he should be glad Danny didn't become a pile of broken limbs on the bleacher, or if he should go ahead and break Danny himself.

And he can't decide. Dash is livid. Danny broke his damn nose! Dash wants to throttle him for that. But when he saw Danny falling over the stairs, one thought screamed in his head: he didn't want to watch Fenton die. For a moment, it overrode his anger with genuine concern. Now that he knows Danny is okay, though, that anger is quickly taking over again.

Danny, seeing Dash's shaking fists, thinks he knows an inkling of what's going through Dash's head right now. He pushes himself back, just in case Dash decides to stop on him. He's still too shaky to stand up right now.

Dash clenches his fists, then releases them, eyes closing. "What the hell is your problem, Fenton?" His voice is hollow.

Danny doesn't even dare to breathe.

Dash grits his teeth. "Fine, whatever, I don't care. I'm going to the nurse." He turns and heads for the doors.

Danny holds his breath until Dash leaves.

—

Tetslaff finds Danny in the gym. "Fenton?" she says, frowning in confusion. "What are you doing here? The students were all sent home."

Danny blinks at her slowly. "What?"

"You gonna learn in the dark?" Tetslaff holds the door open wider and jerks her thumb toward the hall. "Get out of here. No wonder Lancer was getting his panties in a twist, had no idea where you were."

"Oh. Sorry." Danny pushes himself up, wobbling a little, and shuffles toward Tetslaff. "No one was looking for me?"

"Your friends said you went home. Stomach bug." Tetslaff's eyes narrow. "Your sister vouched for you."

Danny freezes, hugging himself tightly. "Really? That's weird." He gives Tetslaff a shaky smile.

"You look like hell, Fenton. Go home. I won't give you detention, this time."

"Thanks," Danny mumbles. Once he's out of the gym, the urge to get out of there as fast as possible seizes him. He sprints down the hall, ignoring Tetslaff's half-hearted shout of, "No running!" and doesn't stop until he reaches the front doors, throwing them open.

Lightning flashes over the city, blinding him. He winces, ducking his head, raising an arm against the rain. He almost forgot about the thunderstorm. Glancing left, he scans the student parking lot. All he sees is an obnoxious yellow Humvee, no sign of Jazz's little Prius. She must have gone home with everyone else, thinking Danny was already long gone taking care of a ghost. He wishes he had been.

With no other option, Danny starts the walk home. The rain drenches him immediately, plastering his hair against his forehead. His shirt clings to his chest and jeans feel heavy and uncomfortable. Halfway down the block, he realizes he left his backpack at school. There's a history paper he needs to work on. Danny shakes his head and keeps walking. He can sneak back in later tonight when his powers are working again. His sleep schedule this week is already pretty much non-existent. What does one more all-night matter?

At the corner of the block, as Danny's waiting for the crosswalk light to come on, a vehicle pulls up on his left and honks. It's the Humvee from the school parking lot. Confused, Danny stares, unmoving. The window rolls down.

Dash glares at him from the driver's seat. "Are you getting in or not?" he asks.

"I– what?"

"I swear you're deaf sometimes. Are. You. Getting. In. Or would you rather walk home in this?" Dash drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "Hurry up, the rain's getting in!"

Danny scrambles forward, throwing the door open and slipping inside. The seat's a little wet, but it's infinitely better than being outside. Almost, Danny thinks, side-eyeing Dash. Neither of them says anything as he pulls up to the lights, which are red now.

Danny pushes his hair out of his face, slicking it back. The style's not half-bad. At least, he likes how it looks in Dash's side mirror. The light ahead of them turns green.

"Seatbelt," Dash says.

"Oh, yeah." Danny hurries to pull it on, clicking it in place. It rests a bit too high against his neck, rubbing uncomfortably below his jaw. "Dash–" he starts.

"Look–" Dash says at the same time. They both cut themselves off, sharing a glance. Danny motions for Dash to continues. "Look. I don't like you, Fenton. I guess I got issues and stuff, whatever, that's none of your business. But you're also a hero, and it'd be pretty stupid of me to beat up a hero."

"It's stupid of you to beat up anyone."

"Can you just, ugh." Dash groans. "I'm trying to apologize to you, moron."

"Well, you suck at it."

Dash seethes, banging his head against the steering wheel.

"Hey, watch the road!" Danny yelps, reaching out to grab the wheel.

Dash slaps his hand away. "Shut up, I know how to drive. Just, I'm sorry, okay?"

Danny frowns. A half-hearted apology doesn't make anything okay. But, at the moment, it's more than anything he's ever expected from Dash, so he'll take it. For now. "Fine."

"Good."

They don't say anything for the rest of the ride, suffering each other's presence until Dash pulls up in front of Fenton Works. Danny has the door open before the car reaches a complete stop, practically throwing himself to the sidewalk. He runs up the front path and slips inside without looking back.

"Danny!" Jazz calls from the living room. She stands up, approaching. "You're soaking wet. Where were you? What happened?"

Danny throws himself into Jazz's arms and cries.

—

Dash sits on the Fenton's curb for a minute before driving off. His house is in the completely opposite direction and now he has to head back toward the school. After going to the nurse, who had thankfully still been in the building, and getting his nose fixed up, Dash's only desire was to head home and immerse himself in video games.

Picking Danny up was a total fluke. He just looked so pathetic, trudging through the rain, and Dash couldn't leave him like that. The apology had been unexpected. Dash didn't realize he meant it until the words left his lips. He's still pissed at Danny for breaking his nose, but he didn't hit back, so that was a step up.

Dash sinks into his seat, staring at how the city lights glitter in the rain. Fenton still sucks. In fact, he sucks even worse now for actually making Dash feel bad about all the bullying. He's got a lot of thinking to do. Nothing he says or does will always what he's already said and done, but apologizing was a good way to start.

#phic phight #phic phight 2020 #danny phantom #dash baxter #danny fenton #danny phantom fanfiction #phanfic #phic #tumblroneshots #Danny needs a hug #he gets one don't worry #Dash needs a punch to the face #he gets that too #I hope you like it gorgi #I said I was gonna pay you back but I don't think this was angsty enough #it's more hurt/comfort #AT LEAST DANNY LIVED IN MINE

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redfoxwritesstuff · 5 years

Text

A Loki by another name... (Loki x ofc)

Hello! For @just-the-hiddles 1k celebration, I bring for you today a Loki x ofc with no warnings. Rated Teen.

A Loki by Another Name....

Audrey giggled to herself, kicking up a pile of leaves as she made her way toward her apartment. The cool fall air kissed her cheeks and gave her breath a hint of winter fog. She was coming home from her sixth date with Luke and everything felt like a teenage dream. He was the handsome mythology teacher who had recently joined the high school. He had seemed to come out of nowhere, blowing into town with his slick dark waves and smart suits.

He captivated her the moment she saw him. When he asked her to dinner a few weeks before the start of the school year, she jumped on the chance. It wasn’t something she could explain but she was so pleased to be noticed by him. One date lead to a second and somehow, they ended up a couple just in time for the beginning of the school year.

Or, she assumed that was what they were. It wasn’t a conversation they had officially had. But he walked her through the school halls, holding her hand for all to see. Teenagers were brutal and you didn’t do that unless you were real, right? It was a conversation she knew she need to have with him but it could wait.

Today had been too perfect to mar it with such a serious talk. They had spent the afternoon holed up together in her classroom, grading papers over tea. Once the mountain was concurred, he had treated her out to dinner in the nicest place in town as if it were nothing.

After a parting kiss, she was left walking through the night on cloud nine. It was safe enough that she didn't give it any thought. Still, when she turned to look behind her, Luke was standing there on the sidewalk in the distance watching her walk away. He'd offered to walk her home, he always did but it was only a few blocks, almost a straight shot. He lived a few blocks in the other direction, it was silly to walk all the way down here only to turn around and walk back.

Over dinner, they had planned to spend Halloween together. It was his idea and judging by the things he had planned for them to do, he had taken his plans straight from a teenage girl's dream. Audrey was beyond excited for it. Hay rides, apple picking, pumpkin patches, it would be perfect. There was no way it could even begin to go sideways.

~~~~~<3

“You mean to tell me Loki is alive and on Earth?” Thor looked sheepishly down at the reflective surface of the polished metal tabletop as Tony raged at him. “You didn’t think to mention that, Point Break, when you found out? He’s dangerous.”

“I’ve been watching him.” Thor offered.

“How? You don’t even know where he is!"

How long has he been on earth, do you know?" Banner asked from where he stood, not paying attention to much going on in the room. His attention was more focused on the matter at hand, a device made of magic and technology, woven together and ticking down seconds. What would happen when the timer reached zero, they didn't know. But it was probably a bad thing. It seemed to always be a bad thing.

“There haven’t been any issues, have there?” Thor offered as if that was a good enough excuse and in his mind, it was. Humans were such short sighted creatures.

“We need to find him, now.” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I agree. He would be of great assistance. He is one of Asagrd’s most skilled in the magical arts. Mother taught him herself.”

Another set of eyes on this would be good." The others ignored Banner's input but he didn't notice, too busy turning the problem over in front of him, trying to find the solution.

“Or maybe we need to find him before he decides he’s having a bad day and needs to take over the world again.” Tony snapped.

“There were reasons for that- I’m sure.” Thor pressed.

“Like what?” Tony didn’t leave him a chance to answer before turning and setting his attention to the computer. All he needed to do was set a facial recognition program and have Friday scan all the security film in the world and if he was lucky, Loki would be on it. How hard could it be to find one rogue god?

~~~~~<3

Audrey was early as she made her way up the steps. The air around her was crisp and but her black pea coat kept her warm enough for now. In a few short weeks, it would be too cold for the stylish coat and it would be replaced with one that would make her resemble a blueberry. The cafe they were to meet at was a small local shop, like most shops in town. Her hair was curled into a bouncing tumble of waves and she had spent far more time on her makeup than normal.

Luke was inside, black waves caressing his shoulders from a recent trim. He greeted her with a coffee in hand and a warm hug. Before she knew it, off they went. What they didn’t see was the people sitting spread out in the restaurant across the street watching them.

As the couple walked down the sidewalk, the group of people made subtle work of gathering outside. They stood on the sidewalk, some pretending to look at a tourist book while others looked after the couple walking in the distance. They didn't expect to find Loki laughing with a women, fingers intertwined.

“That was rather unexpected.” Tony broke the silence as the others agreed. "Let's go get him before something has a chance to go wrong."

Let's observe for now. She is going willingly enough with him and it looks almost as if my brother is courting her." Thor offered, keeping his voice low to avoid drawing any more attention to their group.

So he has more time to hurt her?" Tony scoffed.

Stark, I'm well aware of my brother's past sins. But this has nothing to do with your issues." Thor scolded, putting the issue at rest for the time being.

~~~~~<3

“I had a lot of fun today.” Audrey broke the silence as she looked down at their hands, fingers intertwined. They’d been walking back through the town for a bit. The moon was high and the chill in the air had much more of a bite to it.

“As did I.” Luke agreed, glancing down at her, taking in her thin pea coat and red cheeks. “Are you chilled?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” She lied.

“Nonsense.” He shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders. The warmth soaked into her. “What would the students say if I let their favorite English teacher come down with a cold?”

“Oh yes, we can’t have that. That would ruin your reputation.” She laughed, drawing a chuckle from the man she knew as Luke.

“Time to stop playing house, Reindeer Games. Step away from the girl and come quietly.” A group of people stepped up to them. She recognized the man speaking as Tony Stark and the larger man as Thor.

“I beg your pardon?” Luke scoffed, eyebrow raised.

“I think you’ve got him confused with someone else.” Audrey offered, confused herself as Luke pulled her behind him.

“My apologies, milady but we need a moment with Loki.” Thor offered. Luke's frame was stiff and tense as she held onto his hand still.

“Luke?”

“Loki.” Tony corrected her.

“Is that true?” She pulled her fingers from his.

“Yes. Audrey, let me-”

“You lied to me.”

“We don’t really have time for this.” Tony said but was ignored.

“Why?” She demanded, stepping out to his side. She didn't show any fear of him, though perhaps she should have. “What was this? What was tonight? Just a game?”

“No-” She cut him off.

“I cared for you. Does that matter at all or was it all for your entertainment while you, what? Killed time waiting for the Avengers to find you and take you away?”

Tony moved to step up, say something but Thor rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Let them sort this out. It can wait for a bit longer. Let’s give them a moment.”

She hardly registered the team walking a bit down the street. Loki reached out for her but she took a harsh step away. He decided right then that he would not do this with her now, in front of the eyes of Thor and his friends.

She stepped away harshly, doing her best to yank her arm out of his reach. He was faster by far and his strong hand pulled her back to him. “Get away from-”

His arm circled around her abdomen as her momentum carried her to him. She tripped over her own feet and crashed against his chest. Gray clouds burst forth and swallowed them before winking out as suddenly as they came. When the team looked back to check on the commotion, they found the sidewalk empty.

At no point did she feel fear of him. It was hard to fear a man she had spent so much time getting to know. This wasn't the first time she was alone with him. He didn't look any different now. She couldn’t put the idea of the man she had been getting to know, who had been taking her on such magical dates, who had shown up in this small town with the man who’s pale face had been all over the news during his failed attempt to take over the world.

The next moment, she was standing in what looked like her small living room. She’d spent the night grading papers sitting at her dining table, sharing coffee with Loki more than once. She tired to remember what she knew of the man who was defeated in New York as she turned, pulling herself from his arms easy enough.

There was a moment where instinct took over. Her hand sailed through the air before she could even stop to think how terrible of an idea it was to slap a god. One who had been billed by the media as insane. One she had been tricked into caring for. He had tricked her into caring for him, hadn't he?

“Perhaps I deserved that.” Loki rubbed his jaw with something resembling more affection than pain. “Will you let me speak now?”

“Do I have a choice? Where are we, really, anyway?”

“I suppose not.” Loki mused. “And we’re exactly where it looks like we are, in your living room. We don’t have long before they track me down.”

“Why? I cared for you and it was all a waste.” Tears gathered in her eyes as she crossed her arms in front of her.

“Was it?” Loki asked. His voice was low low and gentle as he reached out, resting his hands on her arms. His thumbs were caressing the curve of her shoulders. It was so hard to tell herself that she should be scared of him when the man looking at her looked no different than the man she knew.

“I’m not an idiot. Stop playing me for one.” She sniffled and it was an ugly sound in her own ears. “Why? Why ‘Luke’? That’s a dumb name, a step down from ‘Loki’.”

“The name? Simply a play on my own name. One of the names mankind has given me through the years is Luki, one letter off.” He shrugged. “It was good enough. I hadn’t planned to stay for long.”

“And I was, what? Just entertainment?” She scoffed and in a moment of frustration, Loki shook her sharply by the shoulders.

“No. I intended to only be here for a few weeks while I recovered strength. But than-”

“You what? Found a toy? God, I can’t believe-”

“Bloody hell! Will you shut up and let me speak?!” Loki roared, voice demanding her attention. “I stayed because of you!”

“What?” Tears spilled from her eyes now and Loki’s hold softened. One hand moved to cup her cheek, fingertips wiping tears away.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m in love with you.” He didn’t give her a chance to turn him down, to say anything at all. “I don’t need you to say anything at the moment. I only needed you to know before they could interfere. I don’t expect that you could-”

“Shut up and kiss me.” What the future holds, she couldn’t say. What she did know was that her heart beat for him. She knew that she cared for him, regardless of if he was Luke, Luki or Loki. It would take time to merge the two identities into one and she had so many questions but none of that mattered in the moment.

He did as she asked. When her front door opened, Tony’s hand on the knob, Loki was kissing her softly as a wave of magic shimmered over him. His smart suit disappeared in a shimmer of green and leather garb replaced it. The shift happened under her fingertips yet she didn't open her eyes. In a moment she went from kissing Luke the teacher to Loki the prince and yet, the way he kissed her remained the same.

When their lips parted, she gazed up at him and admitted for everyone to hear, “I love you.”

~~~~~<3

Tag List: @0-0-0-0-0-0-0-7, @theoneanna, @alexakeyloveloki, @toozmanykids, @j-u-s-t-4, @winterisakiller, @missaphrodite23, @bambamwolf87, @nonsensicalobsessions, @tinchentitri, @xoxabs88xox, @queenoftheunderdark, @wegingerangelica, @myoxisbroken, @panicfob

#loki x original female character #loki x reader #loki x you #loki x ofc #loki x oc #loki x original character #loki x y/n #loki laufeyson x ofc #loki laufeyson x oc #loki layfeyson x reader #loki odinson x ofc #loki odinson x oc #justthehiddles1k

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analysis-by-vaylon · 7 years

Text

Vaylon's Crazy Theory #1: Pony Head will die, and Marco will use her horn as a weapon.

I told you these theories would be crazy, even for me.

First, a disclaimer: the contents of this post are sold as-is. Not guaranteed to actually predict the future, end shipping wars, or bring total enlightenment. Read at your own risk. May cause drowsiness or confusion. Void where prohibited. All sales are final. NO REFUNDS.

(This will be a long post.)

Perhaps you're thinking to yourself, "Vaylon, you crazy person, you, how on earth could you even begin to possibly justify such an outlandish theory?!" Well, what if I told you that it starts all the way back in episode 1b: "Party with a Pony"? But before I can tell you that story, I have to tell you this story: let's talk about the Holy Grail.

Not This @#$% Again!

If you're a regular follower of my blog, then I'm sure by now you're sick to death of me talking about the Holy Grail theory and how I think Lekmet's horn will come to play a big role in future seasons. Well, too bad! It’s a good theory, and I’m proud of it. There’s plenty of evidence for it, in my opinion -- but I missed something related to the Grail. Something big.

You see, I'm kind of an idiot for not realizing the possibility of this Pony Head theory sooner. The answer is literally right in front of my face every day. Have you ever seen my profile picture? It's the Lance of Longinus from Neon Genesis Evangelion.

Evangelion's Lance is based on an actual legend in medieval Christian tradition. The legend says that a Roman soldier named Longinus wanted to make sure that Christ was really dead, so he stabbed him in the side with his spear. (The use of the word lance instead of spear is debatable, but I like the alliteration, so I'm going to use it.) All sorts of stories and magical powers are associated with this weapon, and lots of different relics claim to be the "true" Lance. But here's the thing I had forgotten: in order for the Grail to catch the blood of Christ (and thus become the Grail), there has to be a sizable wound. The Lance, then, is what causes that wound.

The Holy Grail is only half of the picture! You can't have the Grail without the Lance; they go together. I felt like a fool when I realized the connection I’d been missing -- the hint was right in front of me the whole time.

In Arthurian tales, the Grail and Lance often go hand-in-hand -- one or both are depicted as continually dripping with blood -- and there have been lots (and lots) of books written about the symbolism behind the two mythical objects. One reading is that the Grail and Lance symbolically represent feminine and masculine aspects, respectively. Or, more irreverently, they represent Venus and Mars. Any of this starting to sound familiar yet?

I've written previously about Star being associated with the goddess Venus. Marco, then, of course, is associated with the god Mars; not only is his name ultimately derived from Mars, but he has a strong connection to the color red and to martial arts. The Roman god of war is depicted as carrying a spear as a weapon -- indeed, it's part of his symbol, which has now become the traditional symbol for "male." If there is indeed a Lance in Star vs. the Forces of Evil, then it seems only fitting that Marco -- the Lancer of the series -- comes to wield it.

Once I started thinking about the Lance, it was easy to find references to it (some more subtle than others). I've divided the theory into two sections: the first part will deal with connecting Pony Head to the Lance (and hence to Marco). The second part will deal with the foreshadowing of Pony Head's death. Let's begin!

Pony Head and Marco

Remember "Party with a Pony" -- the very first episode we see Pony Head in? Do you remember what game Pony Head and Marco play at the Amethyst Arcade?

Lance Lance Revolution! I was stunned when I recalled that scene. (I also wonder if it's a stealth reference to the opening of Revolutionary Girl Utena -- watch for the flying horses!) Notably, Pony Head loses the game to Marco. Indeed, for what it's worth, there are a number of references to sharp objects in "Party with a Pony":

The series is trying to establish a comparison between lances and Pony Head. Sound far-fetched? Perhaps -- but that's the point (so to speak) of this post. This theory's reading opens up the episode to a lot of irony in lines like this, for instance:

Pony Head: Look here, Earth Turd. This night is really important to me. You mess that up, and you’re gonna get the horn.

Marco could literally receive the horn from Pony Head. And there is another line in "Party with a Pony" that is much, much darker upon re-interpretation, but I'll save that for the second half. For now, let's move on to some other episodes.

Both Star and Marco make use of Pony Head several times throughout the series as a tool:

Her role as a tool in "St. Olga's Reform School for Wayward Princesses" and in "Pizza Thing" could foreshadow the eventual use of her horn as a weapon. "Pizza Thing" is particularly interesting as it focuses on Pony Head and Marco's relationship -- indeed, every time we see Pony Head on-screen, she is somehow causing trouble for Marco -- and there are odd lines in it like this one that seem to hint at something else going on:

Pony Head, however, does have a sharp edge to stab someone with. Marco using her horn as a weapon would be symbolic of the friendship between him and Pony Head; we would think of her every time he uses it. This shot is probably the most symbolic one in the episode, however:

Bowls, as I noted before in my post on the Holy Grail, are symbolic of the Grail; the symbolism, I think, is reinforced by Pony Head putting eggs into it. (Pizza dough does not ordinarily have eggs in it!) Remember: the Grail and the Lance go together. They are a pair, just like Star and Marco.

Finally, there's a pretty unusual passage in Star and Marco's Guide to Mastering Every Dimension:

It seems likely to me that the writers intend far more meaning behind Pony Head and Marco's relationship than is apparent at first glance; if this theory is correct, then perhaps Marco and Pony Head will become much closer than they are now just before she is killed, and he will commit himself to keeping her memory alive in a way she would have wanted.

Word Associations

I think "The Bounce Lounge" -- another often-overlooked episode -- is important, too, for establishing darker themes associated with Pony Head: that of old age, finality, and death. Yet, before we get into those themes, there's something odd going on in this episode, something that I've previously remarked on: shot-for-shot, "The Bounce Lounge" and "The Hard Way" have similar composition. (If you play both episodes at the same time, you'll see for yourself what I'm talking about.) In particular, I would like to focus on these two shots:

Visually, Pony Head is being compared to a pillar. Pillars play an unusual role in the series; for one thing, they're connected to Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade -- a film about the quest for the Holy Grail. For instance, the pillars that mark the clues that Indiana Jones follows are echoed in the second half of season two of Star vs. the Forces of Evil:

Pillar is a word with an interesting etymology. As you can see, it's ultimately derived from the Latin pila -- a word with some interesting connections (among them: mortar and pestle, pistil) -- but, more to the point (again, so to speak), it’s also etymologically connected to the Latin word pilum -- the famed javelin of the Roman soldier. Both pila and pilum probably have their origin in the proto-Indo-European root *peys- meaning "to crush."

The word pillar is ultimately derived from a root meaning "to crush." If you’re skeptical about the significance of this, just consider what a pillar does at the end of "The Battle for Mewni":

Yeah.

I don't think there's any need for us to balk at this sort of word association -- with cleaved in "Storm the Castle" and Janna sleeping in the grave in "Bon Bon the Birthday Clown," the writers have clearly demonstrated that they're aware of the meanings and etymologies of words. (As an aside, think about how much importance the word crush has in episodes like "Sleepover" and "Starcrushed"!) If Pony Head can be compared to a pillar, then she certainly can be compared to a javelin (or, more aptly, a spear).

The amount of suffering in "The Battle for Mewni" -- and the sheer number of times that the words dead or kill are used -- hint that the series as a whole is moving toward a darker, more serious tone. Would the death of a supporting character really be that out of place? There are some elements scattered throughout the series so far which hint at Pony Head's death; let's take a look at them.

The Shadow of Death

Even from the beginning of Pony Head's introduction, there's an air of danger and death around her; after all, in "Party with a Pony," she does try to kill Marco:

In the same episode, Marco responds to Pony Head with some violence of his own:

If this theory is right, and Pony Head is destined to die, consider how darkly ironic King Pony Head's incredible line at the end of "Party with a Pony" becomes:

King Pony Head: Ah, kids... You have 'em, and then you... wish they weren't around.

And that episode isn't the only one like that; as I noted earlier, "The Bounce Lounge" is entirely themed around old age, finality, and endings. There's a crow in the decrepit Bounce Lounge, an omen of death (if you watch the scene, note how the sound travels to the left channel, drawing your attention to the crow):

There's some visual metaphor going on as well: when Star starts to cry, all of her glass unicorn figurines shatter into pieces. Could this be foreshadowing Star's sorrow at her best friend's death? Indeed, the entire episode seems dedicated to priming the audience for -- something -- some kind of major loss or death:

Furthermore, Milly Sparkles says "six customers" -- and the show wants us to pay attention to what she says and how she says it -- but there are actually seven characters present:

At first, I wondered if something would happen to Marco, since he's the only one not reflected in Milly's shades, but in light of this theory, I now think it's Pony Head. A stretch, admittedly (isn't it all?), but it's hard to deny that "The Bounce Lounge" is a grim portent. To a lesser extent, “Running with Scissors” also presages death in what could be an ironic fashion:

This theory of mine about Pony Head may also help explain something I'd been puzzling over for quite a while during the season two finale livestream, which featured Marco and StarFan13 talking about Easter eggs to watch for during "Face the Music" and "Starcrushed":

StarFan13: Did you find all the Easter eggs? Did you find the unicorn skull, the pizza nuggets, and the shoulder tassels?

As far as I know, there's no unicorn skull in either "Face the Music" or "Starcrushed." However, there are some bones near the flytrap-like plant in "Face the Music":

But those don't look like unicorns to me; look at their teeth. (Also, the clues indicate we're looking for a single unicorn skull.) Perhaps this connection is far-fetched, but I always thought the hint of "unicorn skull" prefigured some other death -- and now I think it may be referring to Pony Head's eventual demise. (If someone has an alternate explanation for the unicorn skull hint, I would be happy to hear it!) But this is just a minor point compared to what I think is the biggest clue of all...

In a post about "Starcrushed," I wrote about how, among other things, the Magic High Commission and Star's group of friends all seem to run parallel to one another:

Emergency Friend Meeting: Star, Pony Head, Kelly, Janna, and StarFan13. Magic High Commission: Moon, Lekmet, Omnitraxus Prime, Hekapoo, and Rhombulus.

Thanks to Moon in "Return to Mewni," we know for a fact that Lekmet is gone for good:

Since "Starcrushed" implicitly compares Star's group of friends to the Magic High Commission, I don't think it's too much of a stretch to posit that one of Star's friends could die as well -- and the closest one to Lekmet in terms of kind and symbolism is Pony Head.

Lekmet is associated with healing (as is the Holy Grail); similarly, real-life legends about unicorns are also associated with healing -- their alleged horns were valuable, sought-after items believed to be cure-alls and were purchased by medieval nobles wanting to protect themselves against poison and disease. Both Lekmet and Pony Head have prominent horns, although Pony Head uses hers for magic, and it hasn't been revealed -- yet, anyway -- whether or not Lekmet's horn is magic (but I think it will be soon).

If Lekmet's horn is to be used as a magic item by Star, then is it really that much of a stretch to imagine Pony Head dying and her horn being used as a weapon by Marco?

How It All Goes Down

From what I've been reading, plenty of fans dislike Pony Head; in any case, I would certainly not characterize her as a popular character. I think she's fine in small doses, and at times she can even be hilariously off-beat: her appearance in "Running with Scissors" attests to that! A moment of redemption for her -- something to truly bolster audience opinion of her, perhaps even a heroic sacrifice -- would fit perfectly, I think, into the development of an otherwise unlikable character. It makes a whole lot of sense to me.

And, if it is to happen, then it seems obvious how: Miss Heinous. From "Heinous" -- an episode that I love due to how utterly off-the-rails demented it is -- it's clear that Miss Heinous is quite involved in the process of losing her grip on reality, and she's also become far more bloody-minded than previously shown. Here's a possible chain of events:

Miss Heinous threatens to kill Marco.

Pony Head sacrifices herself to save Marco.

Marco takes Pony Head's horn for revenge.

Implausible? Sure. I freely admit that this theory is crazy -- it's in the title, after all -- but I absolutely think it could happen, and that's what makes it so deliciously tantalizing. Given the show's running theme of transition, I think it would also be influential in terms of character development for Star if she lost her childhood friend; not only would it be symbolic of her transition to adulthood, but it would provide Pony Head a means of redeeming herself and allow the show to reveal just how dark it can truly be. I can’t wait for November!

I hope you enjoyed reading this! Feel free to complain here (or just send questions). Until next time! Take care of yourselves.

#star vs. the forces of evil #crazy theory #pony head #marco diaz

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mirajens · 7 years

Text

dr. catch

paring: jellal/erza rating: t chapter 3 of the rockabye series found on ff.n

Jellal and Erza meet in the most romantic of places: the physical therapy ward

"There he is, Erza. What did I tell you? Isn't he absolutely delicious?"

When Erza heard Mirajane's excited whisper, she looked up from her magazine and followed where her friend's finger shamelessly pointed at a new arrival.

At six months pregnant, it was twice as easy to get Mirajane thrilled about everything. Erza supposed it was because Mira was bored since she started her shifts manning the reception of the physical therapy ward. Before her temporary post as a desk rider, Mirajane had a reputation for handling the therapy of athletes twice her size, so Erza could understand how dull her new job seemed compared to it. This morning, when Erza came in with Natsu for his session, Mirajane started the usual gossip mill off by regaling the adventures of a handsome man who would come in sometime during clinic hours and take his shirt off during his session, rendering her brain dead for a whole hour. Erza supposed it was an exaggeration. This man was supposed to be a family friend so Mirajane bestowed upon herself the right to appreciate without malicious intent, despite being happily married.

The physical therapy ward was not family run but it might as well have been. Mirajane's brother, Elfman, and her husband, Laxus, were therapists in the same practice. Her sister-in-law, Evergreen, was a nurse. Their head orthopedic was her grandfather-in-law. Details like that made Erza confident in leaving her 10 year old in their hands. Natsu didn't grow up with his father but he knew the importance of family. It was one of the many things that made Erza proud of him.

Erza took Mirajane's pointing finger and shoved it down before the man could see. While agreeably delicious, he might not do well to know he was a spectacle. Erza hoped she was subtle while she took in his blue hair and the distinctive tattoo on the left side of his face. The man removed his windbreaker and stomped the snow from the soles of his boots.

"It sure is a mess outside. The snow must be a foot deep by now." He said as greeting when he finally got to the reception area.

"Good morning, Jellal. I hope the drive wasn't too much trouble. Freed is ready for you on the fourth bed."

"Great. Thanks, Mira." Jellal handed his health card over and left, but not before smiling kindly at Erza.

"What a dish, am I right? He was totally making eyes at you, Erza. I saw." Mirajane said in a miserable attempt at keeping her voice down once Jellal joined his therapist.

When Mirajane got like this (that is, in Erza's opinion, hysterical and delusional), Erza knew she had to pump the brakes before Mira could set her up on another blind date from Hell.

"Do you think your husband can hear you calling another man 'delicious'? Or maybe your future child is witnessing what a flirt her mother is?"

"Jellal is delicious. Visually, I mean. I don't think Laxus minds. They're college buddies."

"I doubt it works like that."

"Wait, shh. You'll miss it! This is the best part!" Suddenly, Mirajane grabbed Erza's forearm in an alarming grip.

Erza watched as Freed lead Jellal to the TENS station. Jellal took his shirt off before taking a seat.

"Beautiful, isn't it? He's receiving treatment for just his arm but he always takes his shirt off even when he doesn't have to. No one tells him because they know I would murder them in their sleep." Mirajane pretended to wipe at a tear. "It's a work of art. My pregnancy goes so well because I am privy to this miracle every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. He has the most impressive cum gutters. I mean, aside from Laxus'. Jellal's is a close second."

"You're gross." Erza finally said when she couldn't think of any other way to convey her sentiment without betraying her awe and agreement.

"Sure, Erza. Let's just pretend your eyes didn't bug out of their sockets when you saw his shoulders flex." Mirajane waited a beat before continuing. "His name is Jellal Fernandes. Very single. Like, it's baffling how no one is hitching a ride on that caboose. He'll be forty, this June. And did I mention he's a doctor? A really fancy one that travels. He worked for some scholars last year, which is how he got in an accident. I know it's about bugs or something. It's probably rude, but I can't remember much about him when he's on display like that."

Erza laughed. "I'll take your word for it. But don't even think about setting me up again, Mira. I'm serious. Not after Hibiki. You lost all your Well-Meaning Friend credit after that."

Mirajane pouted but she knew when she was defeated. "Your loss. He's a catch. With a doctorate. He's like, Dr. Catch." When Erza only shook her head in amusement, Mirajane sighed and began inputting Jellal's insurance information into the computer.

There wasn't much to do while Erza waited for her son's therapy to be over. If it wasn't mind-numbing Candy Crush on her phone, it was gossip with Mira, and that dried up much quicker today than Erza expected.

Jellal finished up with physio much than Natsu did. He gave Erza another smile when he approached the reception desk to check out.

"Mira said she'll be back soon. She wanted to buy snacks." Erza offered when Jellal saw the station unmanned.

"Oh, right. That's fine, thanks."

An easy silence passed between them but Erza never liked silences. Maybe she wasn't used to them. "You know you don't have to take your shirt off, right?"

"I don't?" Jellal asked, a brow cocked.

"Not really. You just looked uncomfortable so I thought I'd say."

"Ah, yeah. It's really cold in here. I guess that's why some of the older patients were snickering."

"And here I thought you were just showing off." Erza joked before she could catch herself.

"Hm. Got you to look, didn't I?"

Erza laughed. She normally didn't buy into cheesy flirtation but Dr. Catch had a natural skill for it. Emphasis on the cheesy. "I'd be blushing if you weren't already doing it."

He probably wasn't. But now he did. Erza almost laughed again.

"I'm Erza. I don't normally stand in for the receptionist."

"Jellal. I don't normally take my shirt off for no reason."

Erza grinned, fast and wide. "So what are you in for? Mirajane said it was about your arm."

"Ah. I fell on it when we were spelunking." He looked embarrassed for a while. "I find spiders for a living. Usually in caves or forests. So this isn't really my first rodeo."

Erza couldn't help the shudder. Anything with more than four legs needed to keep at least a ten foot radius from her. Thankfully, Jellal only smiled.

"Not a fan of the creepy-crawlies, I see."

"I'm sorry. I can't trust spiders after that one time in college."

"That's cryptic, but understandable. How about you, though? Do you come here often?"

Erza was spared having to answer when Natsu barreled into her side. "Mmmmmmmom, I'm done!"

Erza felt the wind knocked out of her. Her son started talking too fast, too loud, and she missed half of what he was saying. She held onto key words: Ice cream, Gray and new ball. She was about to tell Natsu to speak slower when he suddenly gasped and pointed a finger at Jellal. Erza felt the punch of Deja vu when she instinctively pushed his hand down.

"IS THAT A SAILOR MERCURY SHIRT!" Natsu's question felt more like an exclamation. An accusation. Erza thought to herself, at least it's the tshirt.

She was twice as relieved when Jellal only grinned. "Yes, she's my favorite. My sister has one, too, but of Luna."

"I like Sailor Mars better. Lucy likes Sailor Moon because she's blonde and has a cat, too. Lucy's cat is named Loke. Do you like cats? Did you watch Sailor Stars already because Lucy can't get a copy of it yet and I don't want to hear any spoilers so don't get any ideas! And your tattoo is neat, is it real? Sometimes Gray draws on my face and-"

"Ok, you definitely don't need ice cream." Erza said, carding her fingers through his already sweaty hair. "How is your back now?"

"Achey. Can I nap until dinner? But I have to call Lucy first and tell her about Sailor Stars because she said to remind her to ask her dad again. Then I have to ask her about homework because I forgot to write it down. But after that can I nap?"

"Yes. Go get your bag and say thank you to Laxus."

Natsu ran off, screaming, "GOODBYE SAILOR MERCURY MAN". Erza laughed again because Jellal looked stunned.

"It's like watching F1 racing, huh? It's too quick to know what's happening until it's over." Her eyes followed the blur of pink scooping up his back pack while yelling inane updates to Laxus. "My son, Natsu. He's twelve, so that's twelve years of me being perpetually exhausted."

"I think that's the first time a child asked about my shirt before the facial tattoo. He seems like a good kid. I generally like anyone who compliments this shirt."

"He's rowdy, but sweet. He has scoliosis and does all these sports. It makes me nervous but as long as he's happy and not pushing himself."

By the door of the PT ward, Natsu, with his jacket zipped up to his chin and his bag strapped to his shoulders, yelled for his mother to hurry up. Erza smiled apologetically at Jellal. "That's the midnight clock. I'll see you around?"

"Yes, absolutely. It was nice meeting you and Natsu." Jellal's hands twitched by his side. She had such lovely hair he caught himself wanting to touch it. Mortified, he stuffed his fists into his windbreaker pockets. "Drive safe."

When Erza finally left with Natsu, Jellal walked up to Laxus, who was just cleaning up after his session. Jellal plopped down on the newly sterilized bed, ignoring the thinning of Laxus' lips. "Man. I just flirted with a married woman. And I almost touched her hair without permission. Like I was in a trance. I want to die. Can you recommend any other hospitals nearby that offers PT on my insurance?"

Laxus crossed his arms. Jellal almost made a joke about the extra 20 seconds Laxus took to grasp his words. "Erza Scarlet? You flirted with her?"

Scarlet. God, even her last name was perfect. "Your comprehension skills are still sharp as ever, Laxus."

Already tart and sour, Laxus looked downright done now. "Thanks, asshole. She's not married, though."

Jellal's brows knit together. "You pulling my leg or something?"

"I only pull legs when my occupation calls for it."

"Oh, haha. Laxus made a funny."

"She's not married. Divorced, I think. Mira told me. They're close." It wasn't rare that Laxus gave Jellal his classic side-eye, but it had been long since Jellal saw it in person. "If you stay around long enough, Lisanna's birthday is in two weeks. Mira's throwing a party. Erza's invited."

"And?"

"And?" Laxus echoed incredulously. "Jesus. 'You really want me to spell it out for you? Come to the party, ask her out. Are you sixteen years old?"

"Since when are you allowed to invite people for your sister-in-law?"

"Since your balls shriveled up and fell off, apparently. Go away. I have to work. Talk to Mira about the party. "

Jellal did just that. Laxus was unbearable when he was grumpy, which would be 80% of the time he was alive. Jellal went back by the reception area to wait for Mira to give his card back. And maybe ask her about that party Erza was going to be at.

#jerza #Jellal Fernandes #erza scarlet #natsu dragneel #Mirajane Strauss #Laxus Dreyar #single parent au #rockabye series #why do i write things when im next to catatonic from a hangover #THIS IS A PALATE CLEANSER FROM ALL THE ANGST RECENTLY SORRY #have some lowkey comedy in the form of mirajane being pregnant and objectively thirsty

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truthofherdreams · 7 years

Text

“Did you really mean it?”

Her riding cloak does very little to shield her from the night winds, despite Benvolio poking at the fire with a stick to keep it alive. He stops his probing of the fire to look up at her, a puzzled frown marring his brows. He says nothing at first, but he must notice her shivering form even in the darkness, for he sheds his leather jacket and moves to her side of the fire. He doesn’t hand it to her, instead putting her around her shoulders, and Rosaline smiles her thanks at him before she grabs the lapels and pulls the fabric closer to her chin.

“What you said,” she clarifies, “about me being all you have.”

Despite only the moon and the fire at his back as sources of lights, Rosaline doesn’t miss how Benvolio’s cheeks turn crimson with shame. He evades her eyes, staring at the ground, before he elects to sit by her side. His thigh brushes against hers as he does so, but she doesn’t recoil from it.

He stares ahead of him in silence for a few moments long, leaving Rosaline the luxury of staring at his face. His eyes are still red from the tears he shed earlier – never had she seen that much vulnerability in a man before, so many emotions at once on his features as he begged for her help. She could not imagine her uncle act in such a way. Even her father had a pride to him that had him strong in the face of adversity. But Benvolio, she is coming to learn, wears his heart on his sleeve, and is not afraid of her judgment when it comes to sharing his emotions with her.

When he finally speaks, it’s after clearing his throat with a cough. Even then, his voice is lower than usual, and Rosaline fears another burst of tears, for she knows very little about comforting people who are neither Livia not Juliet. “My mother died in childbirth, and my father not long after. For as far as I remember, my uncle has always hated me, for the crime of being alive while his brother is dead. Romeo came to the world a few years later, and it was expected of me to take care of him. I loved him like my own brother from the moment he was born.”

A sad smile curls up his lips even as he shakes his head pitifully at the memories. Rosaline’s mind comes up with the picture of a toddler trotting around behind a young boy, both of them with wooden swords on their hips, and it makes her smile fondly. She remembers being young, and brushing Livia’s hair while Juliet was braiding flowers in hers, remembers the laughs and whispers and tea parties. For Benvolio to have been through the same process with Romeo warms her heart more than she would have expected.

“We were but children when we met Mercutio, and he never left our side from this moment. They were all I had, my only friends, the only people who looked at me and saw Benvolio, instead of the dead father I could never replace.”

He definitely sniffs this time, so Rosaline is not surprised to see his eyes watering again. Her aunt’s insults echo in her head, each of them stinging more than the last. How it took so long for Rosaline to notice how similar she is to her betrothed, she will never know, but it is impossible to ignore now. She thinks back to the heated argument they had at her house, and can only see the truth in their words – their hatred came from the other’s name, and she finds herself lacking reasons to despise him now.

“Add to this cousins who now mock me for marrying a Capulet and someone whose affections were only bought,” he goes on, “and you will find out that, indeed, you may be the only one I have left in this world.”

“Should I apologize for that?” she finds herself asking, her tone lighter than it would have been only days ago. Never would she have pictured herself teasing the Montague before, and yet here she is, smiling at herself when she gets a small chuckle out of him. He shakes his head again, a little too self-deprecatingly perhaps, before his eyes finally meet hers – they shine in the firelight, but he’s gratefully not crying anymore. Still, Rosaline reads the turmoil in his pupils, and finds herself at loss for words. She may not know how to comfort a man, but Benvolio is not the man she expected him to be, and she knows how to comfort anyone else. So, carefully, she moves closer to him under she can wrap her arms around his and lean her head against his shoulder.

His body tense at their close proximity at first, before he heaves a sigh and leans into her embrace with his cheek pressed to the top her her head. Neither of them speak again for long minutes, instead electing to stare at the fire in silence. Only the cracking of the burning wood and an owl hooting in the distance come to disturb their peace and, for what seems like the first time in a very long while, Rosaline finds herself calming down.

They may be running away from Verona and running for Benvolio’s life, battling for a way out of their predicament, but all of their troubles suddenly don’t look as insurmountable as before. Tomorrow they will be closer to the monastery they are heading for, and in a few days they will be in Verona with Benvolio’s name cleared, for they will have that of the real murderer.

“There are worst people to rely on, I supposed.”

Rosaline smirks and snickers at his words, even though she doesn’t move away from their embrace. His leather jacket keeps her warm, but not as much as his body pressed to her own, not as much as the warmth spreading inside her with each passing minute.

And then he adds, “Even if you do not appreciate my art as dearly as you should,” and the laugh bubbles out of Rosaline before she can swallow it down.

Handsome and witty, she had said once, out of spite more than anything else. She now wonders if the Fates laugh at her, for she is learning than he is both those things, as well as kind and loyal. Rosaline could even say that she would rather him be less confrontational, but that would be a lie, for even in his most maddening moments he manages to be entertaining enough.

“I shall now be a dutiful wife and praise those scribbles you call drawings, if it so pleases you,” she teases him in return.

Instead of being amused, Benvolio leans away to stare down at her – the serious gleam to his eyes making her uneasy for a moment, even more so when he raises his free hand to cup her face. Whatever he sees in her, she does not know, but it seems as if he is reading her deepest thought, her hidden secrets. Or, at the very least, is trying to.

“I know not what the future will hold for me, but please do promise me to always speak your mind to me. I do not want you to play a role with me, nor do I want to play one with you. If anything else, let us be Benvolio and Rosaline, and not the version of ourselves they expect us to be.”

That, Rosaline decides, she can do. This whole ordeal is exhausting enough as it is for her to keep playing the part of the lady and fear judgements on her character. Whichever thoughts Benvolio has about her, they were only worse a week ago – and so were hers for him. Pretending to be people they are not when nobody else is there to see them seems like a lot of efforts for very little. Being Rosaline and getting to know Benvolio for who is he – for who his friends loved – is a much better option in her mind.

“What you lack in artistic skills, you make up in good ideas, I supposed.”

His grin reaches his eyes this time, and with it comes dimples in his cheeks that have Rosaline’s breath caught in her throat for a moment. For this is the handsome Montague servant girls love to whisper about – charming and handsome in that way very few men ever are.

“Careful there, Capulet. It was almost a compliment.”

She pushes him aside, which only makes him laugh in reply, before she decides that having Benvolio Montague as a friend and an ally might not be such a terrible thing after all.

#rosvolio #rosvolio ff #rosaline capulet #benvolio montague #otp: my beloved #still star crossed #fanfic #ff: still star crossed

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cupcakeshakesnake · 7 years

Text

Watching SWR for the frist time: Through Imperial Eyes

Yep, been looking forward to this episode. Again, not sure if I’ll do any more SWR reactions, but yeah, I’m gonna do this one for sure.

(spoilers ahead)

-Through Imperial Eyes. If you take the first letter of every word, you get TIE. What else has the word TIE in it? Yes, the TIE fighter. Let’s take a look at the TIE fighter, shall we?

According to Wookieepedia, it was “the standard Imperial starfighter seen in massive numbers throghout most of the Galactic Civil War and onward.”

-But wait!

Did you see that?

ILUMANITI CINFORMED!!!11!1!!

-*cough cough* Okay, let’s get back to the actual episode.

-Did he just wake up? What time is this, 2a.m.?

-He sleeps in his uniform?

-”Battle stations, sir!” “Yeah i’m just gonna ignore that and go back into my room to waste water.”

-If the top button closes doors and the bottom one opens doors, what happens if you press one of them repeatedly?

-If I was on a Stardestroyer I would get to the nearest one of those doors and just keep pressing the two buttons alternately until the troopers throw me out of the airlock. I love buttons. I’m so gonna break all their doors.

-He sleeps in his armor?

-I finally understand all the Kallus Simulator jokes on my dash.. but seriously, Imperial Agent Simulator 2017 v3.16, created with Unity Engine and supported on Space Windows Vista, 8, 10 and Space Mac OS 7 and up...

-At first I was like “Holy hell, his room is dark,” but then I realized I had turned down my monitor brightness a lot over the past few days.

-*turns brightness all the way back up to 100* That’s better.

-His sink doesn’t have a drain?

-Yep, he’s definitely been sleeping.

-How do time zones even work in space? You could determine it based on the part of the planet you’re orbiting on, but then you could go to the other side in a very short time. Maybe time just loses its meaning when you’re in space. Only relative. Two hours of sleep, sixteen hours awake, ten hours sleeping because you're going to a faraway planet, it’s not “Lunch on 2o’clock”, it’s “Lunch 5 hours after your last meal”.

-Eyyyyyyyy it’s Yogurt List again

-If you’re not under attack then why the fuck did you ring all those sirens

the fuck did you wake me up for bitch

-That shuttle looks like a plastic lunchbox.

^+kallus= the sideburn squad.

for a moment I thought either the stormies were super short or Kallus was on stilts.

-DUN DUN DUN it’s Ezra

-Nice voice changer mask Ezra, did you get it on eBay?

Sabine Paintjob™

-You were expecting Ezra

bUT IT WAS ME, DIO!

-(I’m so sorry.)

-AP-5, sassy as always, and Chopper, with that Imperial paintjob tactic again.

-I just realized the letters C1-10P are supposed to look like ‘CHOP’.

-WHY DOES AP-5 SOUND LIKE SNAPE FROM HARRY POTTER

I see an A, a B, an X, a Y, aaannnnd some illegible symbols.

-Wait, sure the Empire is big, but if Ezra is a rebel Jedi on the loose, wouldn’t there be posters of him all over the place?

-Kallus: *stands and does nothing* Ezra: “Stop! I’ll tell you anything!” Lyste: wow he’s good

-THRAWN

-WE’RE SEEING THRAWN

-I’m sure AP-5 would have winked there if he had eyelids.

-Poor Lyste. On the other hand, I don’t think being summoned by high-ranking officers in the Empire is all that good. They might be out for your throat for all you know.

-How the hell did Thrawn get that drawing on his ship? Seriously, that’s an Imperial Class Star destroyer according to the Internet, it’s supposed to be 1.6 km long, did he just get a bunch of droids to turn the ship upside down to get that gigantic paint job?

yep, no visible barrier, nothing is being sucked out into space because Star Wars.

-KANAN AND REX ARE WEARING STORMTROOPER ARMOR AGAIN

-DID THEY STEAL ANOTHER SHUTTLE

-Jesus Christ the Empire needs better anti-theft mechanisms

Heyyyy it’s that officer again, what was her name? Oh yeah right, Captain Brunson. I spent ten minutes looking for that name on the internet.

-But Lyste has a cylinder right there...

-I feel like I am constantly reminded of how those are not pens these days. Okay, okay, I get it. Also I know in some other places I said those were insignia, and it’s not a precise term but it’s not wrong either because 1) the code contain information about the officer wearing it including their rank, and 2) the numbers and colors of the cylinders differ based on said officer’s rank/position.

is that a fucking hat

-THERE’S THE CLIP THE ENTIRETY OF TUMBLR WAS GOING CRAZY OVER.

-Override code: *german word*

-(I know it’s not German but it just sounds like it... I am learning German and their ‘ch’ is so hard to pronounce correctly...)

-How tf did he close the door though

-I have a feeling he let them hear the override code on purpose.

-Or... HE WAS SIDING WITH THE REBELLION THE ENTIRE TIME

-DUN DUN DUUUUN

-Sorry.

-Oh it’s that guy now. Disney certainly didn’t feel like modeling any new Imperial officers.

-Ahahahaha lizards Let me guess, ysalamiri?

-YULAREN

-YOU’RE CANON NOW- hold on, A New Hope. YOU’RE 3D ANIMATED NOW- oh wait, Clone Wars. YOU’RE IN REBELS NOW

-WOOHOO

-When Yularen has had more canon appearances than Thrawn.

-Every single Imperial acquaintance seems to come from ‘the Academy’. “Hey, remember me? We ate lunch in the Academy together.” “Remember me from the Academy bathroom?” “I’m from your Academy, remember?”

His eyes are saying “yes you Kallus, you little shit, i know you’re fulcrum you lil bitch yes you right there”

He still has the Phoenix Squadron graffiti... and the lothcat doodle

-”--must be unmasked quickly” Idk why but at first I thought he said “must be on Mars”

Free the Rose Quartzes-- oh, wait, wrong show.

-And now we run into Irina SpalkoPryce... It’s like they scraped all the Imperial characters together and put them on one ship. Except those who are dead. R.I.P. Aresko and Grint,Grand Inquisitor, Minister Tua, Fifth Brother, Seventh Sister, Eight Brother, and countless stormtroopers.

-Kallus: whoops another person i hate, let me just get rid of this person i hate so he can go with her

-Kallus: actually lemme just make them hate each other

-Kallus: i am such a genius

-Kallus you manipulative mutton chop

Aw come on, you can’t get tired of his shit already! How are you going to survive among the Rebels?

-Was Ezra hanging by his chin or something

-Lyste is so serious about this omfg He wants to prove himself Poor dude

-EZRA IS WEARING AN OFFICER’S UNIFORM

-Wait

-How the hell did they find the right size

-Are there smol officers on board

-ARE THERE

-”We’re not here to steal art!”

-Yep, because Thrawn’s definitely gonna look at that map later and go “Welp I guess this one planet here suddenly moved twenty light years to the side, nothing weird about that”

-Lyste’s in big trouble now. I feel sorry for that guy.

-Thrawn smells the traitorous scent.

-KALLUS WAS HIDING THERE

-WHY IS THIS SO FUNNY

-HE DIDN’T PULL ANY CLEVER ANTICS, HE JUST WENT AND HID IN A DITCH IN THE WALL

Is... that supposed to be Imperial insignia as well?

-How the hell did Kallus change the override code

-Wooo, Thrawn action!

-Ouch. He alright tho

-What did he say? “Nix”?

-”Shuttle TY992, you are clear to land.″ NO IT’S NOT IT’S A TRAITOR SHIP WITH TRAITORS IN IT

-”There must be some kind of mistake sir--” Pryce: HOW DARE YOU ASSUME MY GENDER

-But really, gotta love how she didn’t even let him finish the first sentence, didn’t take any of the Jedi bullshit and just said “shoot him”

-She chill af

-DAMN SHE’S A BADASS

-I feel really sorry for Lyste but I can’t help cracking up for some reason

-Yularen why did you come alone

-You could have just brought a bunch of stormtroopers and tased the lot from a distance, or would Ezra’s huge plot shield deflect that too

-Annnnd Pryce faints. Again.

-Dammit Lyste.

-Poor Lyste, and poor Kallus.

-THRAWN’S ACTUALLY PAYING ATTENTION TO THAT PURPLE LOTHCAT DOODLE

-Thrawn knooooowwwssss... He aaaaalwaaaaayyyyssss knooooowwwwwssssssssssss...

-But seriously damn I’m gettin’ chills here.

-”I believe Agent Fulcrum will prove far more useful to the Empire than Kallus ever was.” DAAAAmn

-Kallus is so screwed

-KALLUS. IS. SO. FRICKIN. SCREWED. D’YOU. HEAR. ME.

-This is such a good episode; I don’t usually rewatch episodes, no matter what franchise, but this one I want to watch again.

63 notes · View notes

dan-wreck · 7 years

Photo

BOWIE #2 - STARDUST MEMORIES

Photo by Mick Rock

Oh stop groaning, you can name a piece of writing with a Woody Allen pun when the person you're writing it about is a cultural Zelig.

Soon there's going to be a whole generation where the Bowie they remember is the dead Bowie. The sanitised version who is forming in the popular imagination. Then after that there's going to be a generation who don't have a Bowie. Figuratively and literally, kids born into a post Bowie era. Pity them more. I guess how you first encountered him is a question of when you grew up and your surroundings: a guy I worked with at my last job, 20 years older than me, announced "That guy from Labyrinth is dead!". Presumably, somewhere, there's a die hard Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence fan who was mourning the death of Jack Celliers. We may never know.

For many people the Bowie they remember is Ziggy Bowie, whether they were alive to see him bringing bisexuality onto the BBC or not. Maybe this is one of the reasons behind the recent cringeworthy trend of calling him "the Starman" the same way that faux-matey twats call Paul Weller the Modfather. Maybe it's just that these people are idiots. Bowie himself didn't really seem to think of Ziggy as an enduring character or perhaps he just felt like he’d said all he could through that conduit. He laid him to rest after Aladdin Sane after all: around 42 years before he finished creating. Ziggy was really strictly speaking a footnote. The relatively anonymous figure of Major Tom, however, was one he kept returning to: after Space Oddity he came back in Ashes To Ashes, then again in Hallo Spaceboy (the Pet Shop Boys remix particularly) and then finally we see him dead in the Blackstar video.

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Ashes To Ashes for instance: Major Tom is strung out in heaven's high and hitting an all time low. This, though, at a time when Bowie's cultural stock was quite high. He was incredibly cool. He was still selling a lot of records. He was the one person who could hang out in the living room of a confused and senile Bing Crosby or at a tiny punk gig and fit equally well with either. There was no point reviving Ziggy because a whole load of New Romantics and Goths were doing it. The fact that this new flock of painted birds were very inspired by him was something that'd become crushingly obvious when Bauhaus did their borderline karaoke version of Ziggy Stardust in 82. Bowie embraced his bastard children with open arms, casting them as his grim entourage in his video, with one notable exception.

Gary Numan. A huge fan who wound up getting thrown off the set of a TV show they were both on and being dismissed as the "same old thing in brand new drag" in Teenage Wildlife because our man was feeling a bit insecure about this new pretender. Which is a bit rich, really, considering that young Bowie himself was a fusion of Iggy, Newley, Scott Walker and whoever else he could latch onto. Numan was certainly no more derivative than Bowie and it wasn’t just Bowie he was drawing from: he drew as much from JG Ballard and Philip K Dick novels and John Foxx as he did from the Spider from Bromley. It’s allso amusing considering that he sings Teenage Wildlife in a voice uncannily similar to that of Billy MacKenzie, who his people had recognised the grand high art high camp potential of when they heard the Associates cover of Boys Keep Swinging and offered them a publishing deal; then later on "The midwives to history put on their bloody robes" is delivered in the voice of another Bowie acolyte, Richard Butler.

Make no mistake, Ashes to Ashes is simultaneously a high water mark, a brilliant pop record and the point where Bowie stopped being ahead of trends and started chasing them. It just so happened that a lot of these trends were started by people catching up to him. Confusing, no? In fact, this is the one point where you could maybe give some credence to the lazy critics idea of Bowie as "chameleon". Now at his best Bowie was never a chameleon. Especially when he was first Ziggy, actually because there's no way Bowie / Ziggy was blending into the background: he was an incredibly beautiful, sexually ambiguous peacock character. But during the 80s he did blend in quite a lot. He was just another one of the rank and file whether prancing about onstage with anonymous session hacks on the Glass Spider tour or just being "one of the guys" with Tin Machine. It didn't really suit him. It was unnerving. It still seemed like a costume but a very lazy one. The equivalent of Bowie turning up to the macabre Halloween coke party of 80s pop in casual clothes and saying "I came as David Jones".

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So the next time we saw Major Tom in a lot of people's eyes he really was hitting an all-time low. Not everyone's, not the die-hards and not people who buy and listen to music based on what they hear, not what they're told by a music press who had been swallowed up by the sexless and jingoistic Britpop craze. See, with Outside what he'd done is released an elaborate concept album rife with pervy sexualised violence, violent sex, drugs, strange invented characters and references to obscure artists and art movements like Chris Burden (already visited in the Berlin days on Joe The Lion), Herman Nitsch and the Vienna Actionists. The visual component was a huge part of it all again, with unnerving videos like Samuel Bayer’s The Hearts Filthy Lesson. In interviews he was talking up Tricky and The Young Gods and saying how much he wanted to work with Glenn Branca. Being ahead of the curve by talking about the power of the internet as everyone thought he was nuts. He was even working extensively with Eno again.

You know - the sort of thing you want from Bowie!

This isn't what the British music press wanted. They wanted safe flag-waving and to be told what they knew to make them feel like they hadn't dumbed down to a degree which is still marring pop music with waves of Oasis clones because for a while it was acceptable to make bland drivel devoid of imagination or sensuality. They smeared Bowie's dabbling with jungle and drum'n'bass as a sad old man trying to stay in touch when in reality it was really just in continuity with him learning to play sax as a teenager because that's what all the cool jazz musicians he looked up to did, making "plastic soul" on Young Americans and welding the cold European sensibility of Low, "Heroes" and Lodger to the beating heart of the black American rhythm section of Davis, Murray and Alomar. Cultural segregation, two world wars and one world cup was what they wanted and they didn't want ageing mavericks showing up and demonstrating how hopelessly conservative they were.

A lot of the incredibly dull music being hyped up to the skies was, just like it was with the New Romantics, made by Bowie fans. So the time was right for him to come back but could he have not just have given them Ziggy again? Something with nice short songs, loud guitars, some dramatic strings. This time a bit more hetero, though, so the lads mag readers weren’t left shifting about uncomfortably again the way they were whenever they saw Richey James Edwards.

"Do you like girls or boys? It's confusing these days"

If you're not paying attention you can almost miss it but Hallo Spaceboy is, in fact, mentioning Ziggy / Bowie as much as it mentions Major Tom if not more. In those two lines we see Bowie cagily re-opening the closet door now it's safe for him to do so, and doing so on a mind-fuck of a concept album closer to the spirit of Ziggy or Diamond Dogs than almost anything he'd done since (The Thin White Duke was as much coke psychosis as an actual character). Before this the last time he was really clear about this was on Scream Like A Baby where he talked about queer bashing ("They came down on the faggots") and obliquely mentioned a gay love affair. Then let's look at the remix: it doesn't get much gayer than The Pet Shop Boys, really, does it? The Pet Shop Boys remixing a song from a polymorphously perverse album where he sings from the point of view of various genders: just listen to his alarming pitched-up Baby Grace voice or the strange androgynous Vocoderised ice queen voice of Ramona A Stone.

Most offensively of all, though, however much you laughed at him it didn’t really work because he was very aware that it was funny. The segues between tracks were full of gallows humour and the Algeria Touchshriek voice sounds like nothing so much as Peter Cook’s E.L. Wisty character; it’s very serious stuff but as you hear Bowie intone “The screw is a tightening atrocity, I shake as the reeking flesh is as romantic as hell” in The Voyeur Of Utter Destruction (As Beauty) there’s a faint smirk under it. He is always aware of his own absurdity.

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1.Outside didn't spawn any of the sequels he talked about doing but it's no surprise: artists tend to talk about at least five times as many ideas as they actually follow through and work on. There were drum'n'bass and jungle rhythms creeping in on I'm Deranged and We Prick You, some classic Bowie ballads like Strangers when We Meet (itself, like Teenage Wildlife, in the "Heroes" continuum and one of my favourite Bowie songs) and some homages to what Scott Walker was up to at the moment like The Motel or A Small Plot of Land. He wasn't setting the trends now: he was following them and the best you can hope for is that rather than trying to assimilate into it as he did in the 80s he was putting them into the Bowie blender.

This, however, misses the point that he was never that original in the first place! The way he presented his ideas was, and he had a unique singing voice but the fact is that he just had his ear to the underground and did these things to a mass audience so they just looked new. In that respect Outside is no more or less original than Low or one of the records everyone goes on about it just happens that when it came out it wasn't the first time the masses were hearing these sounds as it was when he made the second side of Low which sounds like Cluster or Harmonia. Bowie’s value wasn’t as an inventor of new sounds it was as a way of making them digestible and emotionally accessible to everyone in a way which may then allow the actual innovators (and he did always cite his sources) to break through to more success: this is quite laudable.

So then of course he went on tour with NIN, continuing to refuse to "act like a man his age". Now this raises an interesting question about Bowie's public perception. How is it that he was an old man 20 years ago when he was in his late 40's - early 50's but then when he died he was too young to go? Could it be that as rock'n'roll, still a young artform, develops that our perceptions of performers capability changes? The fact is that for a pervy old man, as he was labelled at the time, he still looked very youthful and very vital. Far sexier, far more dangerous than any of the Britpop boys who'd grown up on his music but who shuffled about in tracksuit tops and shapeless jeans. As this live TV clip shows, with Gail Ann Dorsey looking just as androgynous and unworldly as he ever did but with seemingly the minimum of effort; and Mike Garson looking deranged.

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The right people were listening: Fincher saw the potential to run The Heart’s Filthy Lesson over the credits of Se7en and Lynch used I’m Deranged in Lost Highway. Both were similarly grim end of the 20th Century blues, meditations on madness. Both soundtracks, coincidentally enough, featured the work of NIN and Coil: it’s a little frustrating how close in terms of interests Bowie and Coil are, how few degrees of separation there are between these immensely influential queer occultist artists and that they never actually worked together.

He continued in this vein with Earthling, still upsetting everyone by continuing to do what he felt like doing rather than digging up old characters. A subtle “fuck you” to the beige whitewashed sounds of Brit-pop in the cover where he wears a stained and tattered Union Jack coat as he looks out over an idealised version of England’s green (screened) and pleasant land. This on an album as infused with contemporary black music as Young Americans was. Even his huge 50th birthday show was as much of a celebration of Bowie present and looking forward as a fond look at what had been. Then, of course, "Hours" came.

Now "Hours" is perhaps an unfairly maligned album: if anyone else had put out an album with songs as great as Thursday's Child and Survive on they'd be praised to the skies and rightly so. They are moving, perfectly constructed pop songs but there's no real fire or spark of innovation in them. What little emotional impact there is has been drowned in high-tech production that covers everything in an unpleasant sheen. This is possibly as much Mark Plati and Reeves Gabrels fault as Bowie's as this is his most straightforwardly collaborative album (with every song co-credited to Gabrels) but I'm not sure. I feel like Reeves Gabrels gets unfairly criticised as he's been involved in some of the most ridiculous things Bowie has done (i.e. Tin Machine) and he appeared onstage in daft outfits playing wanky guitar solos.

He's also been involved in some of my favourite Bowie songs, however, and if you see him playing with The Cure he's not as huge a presence. He’s not jumping all over everything with fretboard tapping and lunging around waggling his tongue like Gene Simmons with a PhD: this implies that he cut such a larger than life figure because his boss wanted him to as much as anything else. So despite his persona bordering on that of a middle-aged man enthusiastically demonstrating FX pedals to you in a guitar shop, blaming him too much is misguided.

According to the excellent Pushing Ahead of the Dame blog, it was around this time Bowie started thinking about making a Ziggy Stardust film and as such he was annoyed by Velvet Goldmine's fictionalised steps into the same territory. Todd Haynes' Velvet Goldmine is an enjoyable film but I can see why he'd be so annoyed with it: it is clearly the work of a gay fan feeling betrayed by him “going back in” circa Let’s Dance. Possibly the great man was realising this wasn’t one of his best moves however well it worked at the time. After "Hours" was out and around the time of Heathen in 2002, Bowie changed his tune regarding Ziggy: “I’m running like fuck from that…Can you imagine anything uglier than a nearly 60-year-old Ziggy Stardust? I don’t think so!".

Similar ambivalence towards the idea is hinted at by the shelving of the video for the Pretty Things Are Going To Hell (itself a dual reference to The Stooges and Hunky Dory) where Bowie is menaced by huge puppets of past characters: the Pierrot from Ashes To Ashes, The Man Who Sold The World, The Thin White Duke and of course Ziggy. Maybe he judged it to be a bit on the nose.

It is an interesting change in perception we've undergone. In 1996 he was too old to be performing like he used to do but in 2013, at the age of 66, there were whispers about how great it'd be if he toured again. Not in any other industry do you expect a 66 year old man to get up onstage and dance about trying to be sexy for two or three hours a night. He could've done it like Dylan or Cohen (who only started touring again when he was much older than Bowie, true) but it wouldn't really have been his style: here was a man for who dance and mime and stagecraft had been an integral part of what made him a star. It’s still very present in his last videos and one of his final works was an honest to God musical after all.

So in the Blackstar video when we see that Major Tom is dead and at peace at last what are we to make of it? Clearing house for a whole new phase of experimentation and new ideas or a man on his last legs knowing that even if he didn't die straight after making this album he didn't have forever and was in the winter of his years? This is where we start to maybe give him too much credit. He was a man, and a great man but not a superhero. Superheroes don’t do things like release terrible covers of Iggy Pop songs with Tina Turner bolted onto them. “Ah but he only did that to keep his good friend financially solvent.”. Okay, good point.

He was a very intelligent man but not some towering inhuman intellect who could've predicted the moment Blackstar's "Something happened on the day he died, his spirit rose a metre and stepped aside" soundtracking the moment we knew we knew we knew. Maybe he predicted that it'd be a long while before somebody else took his place because things aren't set up that way. The industry has no interest in promoting bravery, the shock of the new. But he can't possibly have predicted that he was soundtracking millions of people thinking "He's gone, isn't he?" when he wrote that in remission. To think that he did is ridiculous, isn't it?

Isn't it?

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#david bowie #1. outside #ashes to ashes #ziggy stardust #blackstar #brit pop #jungle

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afutureinnoise · 7 years

Photo

DAVID BOWIE, PART 2

BY DAN WRECK

Photo by Mick Rock

BOWIE #2 - STARDUST MEMORIES

Oh stop groaning, you can name a piece of writing with a Woody Allen pun when the person you're writing it about is a cultural Zelig.

youtube

You know - the sort of thing you want from Bowie!

"Do you like girls or boys? It's confusing these days"

youtube

Outside didn't spawn any of the sequels he talked about doing but it's no surprise: artists tend to talk about at least five times as many ideas as they actually follow through and work on. There were drum'n'bass and jungle rhythms creeping in on I'm Deranged and We Prick You, some classic Bowie ballads like Strangers when We Meet (itself, like Teenage Wildlife, in the "Heroes" continuum and one of my favourite Bowie songs) and some homages to what Scott Walker was up to at the moment like The Motel or A Small Plot of Land. He wasn't setting the trends now: he was following them and the best you can hope for is that rather than trying to assimilate into it as he did in the 80s he was putting them into the Bowie blender.

youtube

“Ah but he only did that to keep his good friend financially solvent.”.

Okay, good point.

Isn't it?

youtube

#david bowie #by dan wreck

4 notes · View notes

silkhuikj · 4 years

Text

silk

Silk

by Hui Kj

****************************

Bailey,

Not the twins or fish rot find faces, and I did not know exactly until after your submarine redirected their mirror lipstick, which is hardly possible to get the subjects more gleeful until your Atlantis: where identity is scanned by [redacted] and your group will be occupying in the sea training, all your ladies from your power shedding but please, for not much longer for such a way is different here now; you can come back to our home planet and your ladies will remember you as I have over such awhile.

For me, motel to motel: lights and backflip, scanning stress, heart rate normal but tried - and what I fear now is your capture and to see locked portals when you teleport into some planet’s virus that shows how you just refuse to be predictable and become hologram trickery, and friendly your way thru in disguise and that is my meaning to advise against your risk taking, besides the mere admiration I have: to avoid but of course promptly applaud on how you adapt across intimidating lines, and what I fear is that you have been brought here and there in your own way of time, yet by my traces shaping, and /Silk/’s gambling habits and you remain invisible one day at a time. Forget old-key monuments; not in this phase of life.

/Silk/ with their gene, file pile separation operation for animal evolution, brain swapping and to sense-evolve: being able to see the scent in the lab: see thru fog - or hear their sigh as crickets choir to a song of freedom outside the bases on acre-vastness maybe noticed. See undo modern garden and me as fuck up then with the modern tree with extraction for our potions that remain classified, and I fuck up edit-copy-send and refuse to supply 100% of my own intel piles - there is a kingdom getting more difficult to fight for.

Sometimes there are branches French kissing or cloud faces turning to see: all too addicting but they remain when I break eye contact and that is why we seek out identity because identity is everywhere if you hunt metaphysics or any bloom or trail. My curtains are closed now - and the powers are wearing off since I removed myself out of fear.

A joke would be fireworks if we do not see each other but the cosmos specks are stories: the static riot and all the Rains, and all the Noahs, and all the Summers; shame for the tongue at the edge of worlds to wait on but deniable recruitment statuses, or a wise one does not have the knack or interest for our history and maybe even any history neither. You bite your tongue. If subject is at truth then it is ice cold when they are older yet you help them from the sea. Game but will title. So, when crazy B?

/Silk/ is very serious about when green is black there is orange. If God knew of what you said that day then…..this is why I am alone and gave my office to our good pal Garcia who you teamed then but you were sent elsewhere because of the so many blueprints. He might of stole information like I did so, but he is an artist - I have not been back for almost a year, and I will not get current-tied; not again because you are already there and anywhere often but away. They remain a vision tilt opus all in all frequently, and that is /Silk/ while we can write these letters but somehow are separated by design tally planets away, mild difference with submarines, airplanes, or again classified means…(teleport), but you do not think that is true and your letters tell me that each person planted should envy each other and collectively better the world - /Silk/ is good but it all separates us. Jolie amour, I need to see you. /Silk/ is sending me someone - Godspeed. . .

- K.Well

***********************************

Bailey,

Did /Silk/ call for a virtual huddle when the scan came thru? I do not know if heaven cheers or if the sky is the first to go dark - I am not in the system anymore. My den is poison-lights straining me with puzzle strings if void is nothing or everything lately. I meant something else about teacher-twins. [Filter]: sonder not bombers; they are not reporting on recruits from planet: Sneurnka: make sure /Silk/ knows different hums are different revivers and then learn it.. all subjects will be tested about planet flexibility and I will send spies on my own if I must.

I love you Bailey. When you turn on Church Street out-under, do you crack from the suicide I have caused? The admirers… I am trying to preserve this for you from me, or just my depictions made some crazy when they were fine and it was misguided when the risk was absolute zero but was taken as contradiction. Garcia told you; so you can know my pain: weary agent uncurling. Me for earth - you at Atlantis - /Silk/ unknown: we want to save Sneurnka. Although, there is a raptured fever held and kept to a butterfly and your data fraction was saved and I have it here with me. (Reference: Garcia: code: Wolfman.) He sent me a letter about green suicide: not too far away from me now. It is someone - possibly an old subject, and I found him and invited him to coffee…. Ah, we need a double against old friends, find my chip; last buffered 492582 and even what did I Mrs. then? - in hiding for this. The subject will collapse in will offer up himself for the Sneurnka attack; the issue is all he knows is snow just pressed diction and fear for coming back - he is 30 minutes away.

I will try spelling it out for him ad submerge lightning in honor of your sector with options for placement. My cup of tea is psychosis even though I remember how brave you were in training, even outlining the teacher’s alien drawings and it was impossible for you to not get promoted and promoted on. You helped me, and /Silk/ gave you that noble internship and when God showed your eyes were shut because one of the Noah’s turtles went blue; /Silk/ was zapped by God, and extraction is what I am trying to get to you but it is tangible unlike our computer army that I refuse to reopen those blueprints and be discovered )))))))))))))))

((((((((((((((( Subject 1 brought his cousin to the cafe. She (2) told me to be sick six times. It made it seem that things were reserved for the last: they had cuts on their arms and around their body and even mentioned they would sometimes slice each other to feel - /Silk/ is interested because of their undeniably unique aesthetic with the moodiness, enigma spy, and they told me the uncommon fight is how glow is glow and I am guessing /Silk/ will offer these two help and if it is incest then many things could be of disturbance to the code and DNA of any of our bases. They just do many drugs; mostly meth for telepathy access. Denial they would throw pennies at me but you would be the cousin’s Queen. It is just their mayday. ))

—

The subjects told me how their vibration is grey but remain investigating. My jaw dropped when they spoke of death wishes, and without hesitation I offered up a planet Sneurnka visitation. Their grey rain in a season and meeting destiny accidentally: subject 2 spoke up, I need /Silk/ to stay away from this kind of plotting: her filter exposes and forfeits progression 00000 doom but they will be away at Sneurnka to learn about spite, and you are the one I trust B - if you go there you could have your position changed: I know asking for more of your help is painful both ways, but new subjects contact me swiftly but urgently throughout my months data scanning. You could help these subjects, and you have dearly planted productivity at Atlantis. Your tracking will be up again once you arise. Thanks for all you do.

K.Well

*******************************

Bailey,

Wolfman dimension Q swayed your findings and concerns for you to report to Sneurnka, even though your 7th sent me a direct postcard from London - thank you for writing my dear: I am jazzed even if everyone else just knows your badge. In your letter, I must say, you misplaced something: ‘cat9’ which the code has changed and now only means, ‘Virginia, Vegas fathers’ - which Wolfman has drafted your report so all in all to /Silk/; you have your clones pretty and handsome: bravery; as you are always and everyone fears you for ethics.

Your dyed your hair black and your profile ‘Xxxx-00000’ is equivalent to the April trinity: tho all scanning winter, summer, spring, and still in progress. You always told me you just wanted to be normal, and I do not know if I can fix that: you bring peace and if you are tired of retire daydream then I will contact /Silk/ and see if they can give you a vacation in Z and electrify a twin to achieve points Sneurnka or not, and if you never see me again: it is because Wolfman said I was crazy and rebellious and evil for deactivating my will to get out - this matrix is a doorbell: but I am afraid the only nerves is that nobody will show. I have merged my clones for a greater cause and /Silk/ is not only guarding you but slowly casting virus walls in my chips thru our line. Yet, you are the invisible one, and maybe you will frenzy to freedom without my help.

Wolfman is dialing…))))))))))))))))))

((((((((((((((((((((( So,…. /Silk/ has found a C in America, Earth. so your 9 was correct: well done! Wolfman wanted me to tell you about this important art: XXXXXXX by XXXXXXX, and that was all. B, my eyes on you will stay to protect but I am no host. Turn around if you feel anxious, but I know that is wave oriented and you are so bold and infinitely inspiring. You said in your letter that Atlantis is in order. I will be scanning in Sneurnka for awhile while you train C - remember, Earth’s eye is violent but Sneurnka is worse - Wolfman will assist with……))))))))))))))))

((((((((((((((((

(

I cannot scan any finds; undetectable information walls - your parents are dialing my phone but my phone is under. Reading about the suicides - oh no B. I can not send anymore blueprints and there is no clearance for you to know about the Wvm-virus that slipped out from my lab…. - unplugging, updates thru my brother only, he is on Mars.

Bailey, if we had matching shoes…. You will be hearing from /Silk/ soon I predict. I am weak and they know about me but not you. I am sorry. I love you. Goodbye for now! ~~~~~~~~~~ <3

- A.Well

*************************************

1 year later —————

It was to attempt to think in front of me and it was awkward now without subjects coming to see me - I never left the motel room and have not seen daylight. There are dreams of crows and the roar of trees of winds that I called peace but the crows from my bad dreams. I kept busy sifting thru war crime data and I have not heard from /Silk/ - would refuse jobs anyway. The thought of getting a bicycle was like heroin, and nobody could make out my face - even tho Sneurnka acutely invaded parts of here maybe two hours out.

My doppelgängers expired - Wolfman in the news but Bailey hail for peace never seen but remarkable invisibility. It is difficult to see forward; never had a track on her, my brother on Mars never alerts me, /Silk/ sends shocks to my chip twice a day but everyone uninvolved from past status and now I am an utter waste….

C might rival with Bailey, and Wolfman may end up like me: depressed and heartbroken without a seeming purpose but to tune into war and unable. He never made a death wish, and neither did I, but my eyes were red then. There is always the surrendering of brain in a /Silk/ lab, but seclusion has made me mad and any action at all seems like suicide - ah, trapped but was a villain. Earth has spun, and Sneurnka the action needed - /Silk/ will conquer the galaxy and imprison me as something official, differing from now in motels.

***************** (mental hospital)

Daniel! I know you! I know you Daniel! Hey! I know you!

**************************

Doctor Frances floated him to sleep thru his veins……

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iammyownteacher · 7 years

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AN INTERVIEW WITH SHAUN TAN

There aren't many artists who have the ability to both write and illustrate their own work; but Shaun Tan is an exception. The Australian artist began working as a freelance illustrator, collaborating with well-known authors, Gary Crew and John Marsden before eventually turning his hand to writing his own books which include: The Lost Thing (1999); The Red Tree (2001); The Arrival (2006) and his latest work, Tales From Outer Suburbia, a collection of stories set in the remote Western Australia, where he grew up. Filled with magical realism, humour and poignancy, it is also the longest book he has written and comes after his acclaimed and controversial The Arrival, a 128-page picture book documenting the migrant experience, without using any words at all. See http://www.shauntan.net/.

To start with, could you tell me about your background as an artist? Have you been drawing and writing since you were young? When did you decide that you wanted to be writer/book illustrator?

I think I'm like most people, I don't remember when I started drawing: most likely as a crayon-gripping toddler. I think everyone starts out as an avid drawer, it's just a primal kind of instinct, and raises the more interesting question: "When do people stop drawing?" I guess the interest wanes, or is replaced by other skills. Some people, like myself, just keep doing it as a form of extended play from early childhood, using this simple craft to express complex adult concerns.

But - to answer the question! - I did exhibit some early talent as a child, or at least found a way of drawing 'convincing' images by the age of three, so that a bird really looked like a bird, rather than a bird-ish scribble. By five I think I understood a set of techniques and tricks at a basic level, that drawing was about finding simple elements in things. My parents, while not artists themselves, both had an interest in the visual arts (my Mum could draw quite well and my Dad is an architect), and I think their encouragement of drawing was far more important than any innate skill. It was always fun to draw something and then show it to them - they would always act incredibly surprised and amazed! Part of a parent's job description, I think. My brother's talent at the age of six was to collect, identify and label rocks: he's now a very successful geologist. I'm sure it's because of that same unqualified encouragement.

The interest in writing probably came from being read to as a child, both at home and school. I think I was quite a late reader and writer, but did find books fascinating, both as stories and physical objects, so I was compelled to create my own. Some of these ended up in the school library, being quite good imitations of real books, which other kids could borrow. They were usually stories about adventurers travelling to another world, finding treasure, and blowing everything up, inspired mostly by movies and TV, with titles like 'The Land Beneath the Sea' and 'Mission to Mars'. One or two went missing from the school library, which may or may not be a good thing as far as my artistic reputation goes.

I had no serious intentions of becoming a writer or illustrator, even though I thought that would be a fantastic job. Growing up in the West Australian suburbs, it simply did not seem like a real occupation. It was only in my late teens that I became very focused on two things: painting landscapes and writing science fiction short stories. I always thought I might end up as a painter or writer, but for a long time saw these as completely separate practices, somewhat incompatible. Generally, I did not know what career I might pursue, and going into university, it was a toss up between biotechnology (another big interest), and an arts degree. I chose the latter.

As a student I funded my studies in part by picking up various small illustration jobs, such as brochures for campus departments and the university's graduate magazine. I was also having some success illustrating stories in science fiction magazines. When I finished my degree, I still did not have any career convictions, but decided to try doing this kind of freelance illustration full-time for about a year, and see if I could make a go of it. It turned out that I could, especially illustrating children's educational and trade books, and fantasy novel covers. That eventually led into picture books, which is where I am at currently, with some recent forays into theatre and film.

A lot of your work deals with displacement. The Lost Thing and the main character in The Arrival: travelling through a foreign land and learning a new way of life. Many of your illustrations also show the characters as miniscule in comparison to the landscape which they inhabit. Where does this interest come from? Do you, like your characters, share a general sense of disconnected-ness from the world?

That's an interesting observation: I'm not so consciously aware of my preoccupations until they resolve into stories and images, so it's a complex one to answer. A psychologist might have a better crack at that! I just find myself strongly attracted, in an empathetic way, to images of isolated figures moving through vast, often confounding landscapes. My intellectual self would say that this is a metaphor for a basic existential condition: we all find ourselves in landscapes that we don't fully understand, even if they are familiar, that everything is philosophically challenging. There is also an idea that any creative thinking carries some problem of identity and meaning, that individuality needs to be endless negotiated, that we are always trying to figure out how we connect to the things around us.

I also always have this sense - perhaps gleaned from science fiction - that our current time and place is quite accidental, one of many possible alternatives, and also that humans are not at the centre of the universe. I grew up in a peripheral suburb of metropolitan Perth, one of the most isolated cities in the world, surrounded by the Indian Ocean on one side and flat, semi-arid bush on the other. Our world was (and still is) a small human incursion into something enormous, ancient, quiet and mysterious: small houses surrounded by dunes and dark, tangled trees; parks and schoolyards populated mainly by crows, parrots and prehistoric-looking bugs. That's since changed as huge malls and carparks have moved in, but the basic fact of a 'transplanted' world remains, one with an unclear sense of place or history. It's full of stuff but it's all somehow insubstantial.

A lot of my early work, whether paintings or stories, have at there core some issue of disconnection between the natural and built environment, which I think is actually a defining characteristic of our time. It's most clearly stated in The Rabbits for instance; and implicitly in The Lost Thing with its awkward and depressing world-by-numbers. That same feeling filters into all sorts of other ideas and themes, a sense of disconnection between people in relationships, issues of cultural misunderstanding, gaps between ideology and reality, intentions and results, language and objects. These things are all great fuel for the imagination too. I would go so far as to say that all art and literature is about some kind of disconnection, brokenness or discrepancy.

Do you like to travel and explore different countries/worlds, or are you happier creating worlds of your own?

Well, both really. I get plenty of inspiration from being in unfamiliar places, and being reminded of the different ways people can think and live, that nothing is 'normal'. Interestingly, though, I rarely feel the urge to draw when travelling, as if travelling alone offers enough weirdness. Likewise, I find it much easier to do creative work 'in tranquillity,' back in my studio which feels very plain and prosaic, working best when little else is going on. Travelling and drawing are very similar activities, in that they force you to look at everything carefully: one is an outward adventure, the other an inward adventure. They are both equally interesting and enjoyable, as well as sometimes being difficult pleasures.

If you could visit any fantasy world, what one would it be?

As a younger person, I would have loved to enter a Tolkien-esque world (and could easily pass for a hobbit too!), and some of the imaginary worlds I was drawing as a teenager, but I don't really have those kind of escapist longings any more. More and more I see fantasy worlds - as in The Arrival - as a way of tapping into the real world, of trying to understand reality better through a speculative lens. If I was to visit that world, I would immediately lose my bearings, like entering a metaphor without its real-world anchorage. I prefer to visit using only a pencil on paper.

A lot of the fantasy worlds that fascinate me the most are ones I would not like to visit at all, like Orwell's 1984, Swift's Gulliver's Travels or McCarthy's The Road. Once again, I'm interesting in places where things are somehow broken or disconnected.

Many of your illustrations are montages of scraps from the everyday that might normally be disregarded or thrown away: stamps; receipts; notes; newspaper headlines. Are you a collector? Do you have an interest in highlighting and preserving these transient objects?

Yes, I do. I'm very interested in things that are overlooked, and in trying to find value in things that are not considered valuable. Collage also introduces an important element of random chance into an image, much like a good brush mark, it's not entirely controlled. It's also a good way to break the 'surface tension' of a blank canvas - just start sticking things on, almost without letting conscious decision-making get in the way.

I do have a tendency to collect things, which I have to control a little bit, limiting it to things that are actually useful to avoid being a pack rat. I have a large cardboard box full of small papery bits, which are always useful. I also have a collection of disposable books and magazines that I use as collage material. The less this material has to do with anything aesthetic, the more useful it seems to be - hence lots of physics, maths and engineering textbooks. In my picture book The Lost Thing, this collage helped develop the central theme of the story, of what happens when playfulness enters a world that only knows calculated certainty.

There's also a lot of optimism in your books, particularly The Red Tree. Similarly, some of the stories in Tales From Outer Suburbia are critical of the paranoia that exists as a result of the 'War on Terrorism'. Do you like to assure your readers or at least let them know that the world is really not out to get them?

I feel no need at all to reassure readers or myself of anything, I'm just trying to be realistic. I don't have a message as such, just some recurring observations, which leave me feeling a little ambivalent actually. The story 'Amnesia Machine' [from Tales From Outer Suburbia] really laments the way mass media can degrade an otherwise good democratic system - and that people fall for it every time, without seeming to learn any broad lessons. But just after that is the story about how citizens find a way to cleverly disarm an absurd government policy (by literally disarming missiles) and being compassionate and conscientious, by refusing to be afraid. I feel that both of these are realistic representations, that there is a constant tension in the world between ignorant acceptance and a higher consciousness (which requires effort). This is also a tension that exists within us as individuals, competing forces of darkness and light, both of which need to be acknowledged.

Many of your characters have no names: the main character in The Lost Thing is referred to merely as "a thing," for example. Do you not name your characters on purpose? Do you think that not naming gives the work a greater universality?

Yes, I think that's it, trying to find the best universal metaphor. Though it's not really a strategy, it just always feels right to me to have characters that don't have a specific identity, to the point of not even being recognisable creatures.

Your most recent work, Tales From Outer Suburbia, is also your most text-heavy book to date. Did this come as a reaction to your previous book, The Arrival, which featured no writing at all?

I don't see Tales From Outer Suburbia as having any real relation to The Arrival, as they seem to me to be quite different books - it might have been good to produce them under pseudonyms! But as far as creative process goes, you are right, there was a certain reaction going on there. I was often sneaking off to write the stories in Tales in between the long hours of rigorous pencil shading that went into each page of The Arrival, so it became a kind of outlet for pent-up words and conceptual playfulness, as well as humour.

I was keen to try something that was very fragmented and varied, grabbing whatever tools I thought might best do the job, mixing words, images and layout designs. Before being a full-time illustrator, I used to write piles of (unpublished) short stories, so it felt as though I was returning to fairly comfortable territory, and finding a good balance.

Could you ever imagine writing a book without illustrations?

Yes, I can't see why not. Some stories don't need illustrations, and are in fact much better off without them. However, because I tend to use visual images as my starting point, I have a feeling they will always infiltrate anything I do one way or another.

Tales From Outer Suburbia was inspired by your childhood growing up in Western Australia, but you also manage to transform a suburban setting into a place of magic and miracles. In some of the stories, Water Buffalos take up residence in vacant lots and Dugongs appear in backyards. A lot of people imagine suburbia as banal and generic; do you believe it has the potential to be something else?

Yes, anything has the potential to be something else. As a child and teenager, I used to think that the place I lived in was far too boring to comment upon, that all the good, interesting stuff was somewhere else. It was only when I started painting local suburban scenes in my twenties that I realised the subject was not so important, it was how much thought and imagination you applied to it. So a painting of a simple suburban footpath could be as fascinating as the most exotic landscape, given enough emotional investment (I often think of Van Gogh's paintings of a chair for guidance, or Morandi's little groups of bone-coloured bottles, brilliant paintings of banal objects).

Of course, I do introduce a lot of exotic, surrealist elements into my suburban visual stories in a seemingly artificial way, as a kind of 'what if?' exercise, but the initial inspiration for these comes from observing pretty ordinary things; like looking at an overgrown vacant lot, for instance, and asking 'who lives there?,' or a walnut shell and wondering if it would make a good little suitcase, or a TV aerial and imagining people decorating for some special occasion. Suburbia is definitely bland and generic, but there's also a suppressed strangeness there, a culture foreign to itself. And the fact that it does, on the surface, seem uninspiring, or escapes creative attention, means that it's an excellent canvas to be painting (or writing) upon; it's blank, quiet and opens up quite easily to absurd intrusions.

When you are working on a story what tends to come first: the words or the pictures?

It's hard to say, but generally a story is triggered by a visual image, either vaguely sketched, or vaguely imagined in my mind. Words may follow, then another image, then more words, so it's backwards and forwards - each element plays with or against the other, prompting new ideas. Words are good for playing with abstract concepts, summarising storylines and outlining structure. Images seem to bring a kind of mystery and atmosphere that can greatly expand a written idea.

Yet the main thing for me is that one does not 'explain' the other, but more often questions the ambiguities of both word and image. In hindsight, many of the stories in Tales are to do with the slipperiness of understanding or naming things, hence a nameless holiday, a Japanese diver who cannot make himself understood; an exchange student with a name that nobody can pronounce; a water buffalo who points without speaking, and so on. Images build upon the mystery that's already present in language, realising that all these sounds and symbols are quite provisional, and can mean different things to different people.

Finally, what are you working on at the moment?

An animated adaptation of an older picture book The Lost Thing, with a production company based in Melbourne, Pasion Pictures Australia. It's 15 minutes long, and due to be completed at the end of the year; animated digitally with hand-painted textures. I'm responsible for writing, directing and designing much of the film, which has been an interesting learning curve over a period of some years - it's all coming together quite well thanks to a small, dedicated team.

I'm also trying to do a little more painting of large canvases, which use to be my main pastime before illustration took over as a profession. These are not for exhibition or sale, rather a means of keeping in practise, and learning how to see and paint, something that you never really accomplish fully. I still feel very much like an art student every time I pick up a pencil or brush, not entirely knowing how things will end up.

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